


Tale as old as time

by ferventrabbit



Series: Disney for cannibals [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Will, Canon-Typical Violence, Disney for cannibals, F/M, Fluff, M/M, New! empathy skills, Oral Sex, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-23 14:27:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 24,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4880329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferventrabbit/pseuds/ferventrabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I would consider very carefully before moving any further, Will," says Hannibal. Will can feel the mirth dancing in time with Molly's pulse.</p><p>"What am I considering?"</p><p>"A great perhaps," he says.</p><p>--------------------------------</p><p>If he could learn to love another, the spell would be broken. But who could ever learn to love a beast?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Hannibal has her by the throat. It's a thing of beauty, to see his strength arc out from muscles over bone, ripped into the shadow of the room like lightning. Molly is gasping, but her eyes are calculating, glancing for an opportunity to get the better of him. Will thinks that's what he loves most about her. She has a resiliency that he finds wanting in himself, though he seems to emerge from improbable situations alive and mostly unscathed. Hannibal only has to use one hand to circle her neck. 

"Hannibal," Will breathes. He has nothing particular to say. His mind is slowly withdrawing until their figures become abstract, calling on references from murders and movies and stories he was told as a boy. Molly is trying to speak, and to Will it sounds like the whisper of a ghost.

"Wally - " she gasps. Will knows that Wally is nearby, but he is his mother's son. He has either chosen the perfect hiding place or is about to bring the whole thing to a crashing halt, some ingenious and lucky scheme that ends with Hannibal in handcuffs. Somehow the image of that sends a dagger of ice through Will's heart, and he is in motion.

"I would consider very carefully before moving any further, Will," says Hannibal. Will can feel the mirth dancing in time with Molly's pulse.

"What am I considering?"

"A great perhaps," he says.

 

Will wakes in his own bed, shuttered in familiar silence and beneath sheets that were a wedding present from Molly's college roommate. The pain in his cheek is a dull, medicated ache. He remembers icy regret and a screaming pressure between his ears as the water swallowed him down. Then there are flashes of the night sky and stabbing in his lungs, and then a cool slide into unconsciousness that brings him the first dreamless sleep he's ever known. His eyes focus on objects in the room: the mirror leaning against the wall that hides ripped paint, the photographs lined along the dresser. One of them is a picture of him and Wally on one of their first fishing trips. They hadn't caught anything yet. Will has his back to the camera, and Wally is looking up at him with an intense schoolboy focus. The person who took the photograph loves them.

He assumes Hannibal injected him with a sedative, maybe the same thing that Francis Dolarhyde had used in greeting at his motel room. He recognizes the swirling sensation of being deposited back into his own skin. Still is own skin? He runs a hand along his arm and finds his shoulder bandaged in clean cloth. To his credit he only falls over once on the journey from his bed to the hallway. He can smell parsley and garlic from the kitchen. 

"Good evening, Will," says Hannibal. It takes Will a moment to locate his former psychiatrist, who is bent over adjusting the stove dials. He stands with uncharacteristic care, and Will remembers that he had been shot and tossed around like a ragdoll and is probably feeling keenly the loss of a prized vintage. "How are you finding the amobarbital?"

Will simply nods as he leans against the wall. He wonders if the drug is allowing him to take all of this in stride, Hannibal in his and Molly's kitchen and light classical playing from the speakers in the dining room. He feels at once unhinged and alight with clarity.

Hannibal is wearing unflattering khakis and a t-shirt that says "God Bless the USA." His skin looks ashen and his mouth is tight with pain, but there is a vitality in his eyes that makes Will's head swim. It's fear, he thinks.

"H-how long have we been here?" Curse the stammer.

"About two hours," Hannibal answers. "I was prepared to kill your wife and son upon arrival, but unfortunately it seems as if they are gone for the night."

"If it's a Tuesday, then Molly is at Wally's baseball game."

"There we have it, then."

"They'll be home soon."

Hannibal turns off the stove and slides a generous helping of potatoes and tender meat onto a plate on the kitchen island. "Pommes persillade with grilled tenderloin." Hannibal slides the plate closer to Will and goes searching for utensils.

"The drawer to the left of the sink," Will offers helpfully. His head is still swimming.

"Thank you, Will."

Will sinks down onto one of the kitchen stools and stares at the plate of food, seeing worms and offal and animal bones. Each second that passes brings increased sensation to the numbed parts of his body.

They eat in silence, save for the scraping of forks and knives. Halfway through the meal he hears the absence of his dogs.

"Did you kill them?" Will asks. He wonders if he would be fast enough to slit Hannibal's throat. Probably not.

"They are in the garage with plenty of food and water." Hannibal gathers the empty plates and leaves them to soak in the sink. He leaves the kitchen and Will follows him, strangely possessive of Molly's things. Hannibal is at the window looking out into the yard.

"How's your abdomen?"

"I may be bleeding internally," Hannibal says. Will stands a few feet behind him and allows the disappointment to melt in. He hadn't planned for this contingency - surviving the fall. He doesn't feel the urge to run, or even to fight. He knows he would struggle if Hannibal tried to kill him here, but it would be halfhearted. The prospect of negotiating this new terrain with the Chesapeake Ripper is too exhausting.

They stand in quiet vigil until headlights spill across the trees and the gravel of the road crunches with footsteps. In an instant Will is running to the front door, panic and rage coursing through him, before an elbow to his temple takes him down and out. 

 

As Molly hangs from Hannibal's hand, the pendulum swings.

He is fighting for his life as the waves crash around him, full of anger and joy. He is pumping Will's chest on the ragged beach. He is dragging them toward the road, falling to his knees again and again. He is rolling the driver's body into the brush and rushing through the night. He is at Walmart, inexplicably, and Will is covered with a tarp from the truck bed. He is a skilled surgeon, stitching. His heart is saying  _please please_ and the dogs weave through his legs in welcome. He slowly regains the breath in his lungs and he will kill every person on the earth for Will, including himself. They will either rise together or sink into the pitch with alacrity, and all the world will be in love with night and pay no worship to the garish sun. This is his design.

"Hannibal," Will says again. "If you let her go you can have me."

"Conditions promote mistrust, Will." Will sees Molly's eyes flash and he assures her,  _Please let me. I'm sorry. Keep fighting_. His hatred spurs him.

"Are you afraid of the challenge?" Hannibal's mouth twitches upward and his hand tightens. "If you didn't come for them I might never have made this decision."

"Yes," Hannibal says. The antlers are bright red.

"Take me instead."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "A great perhaps" quoted from François Rabelais  
> "All the world will be in love with night..." quoted from Shakespeare
> 
> More to come??


	2. Chapter 2

Will expects another dose of sedative, but Hannibal gives him no indication either way. Molly is unconscious in their bedroom.

"Let me be the one to find Wally," Will says. He imagines that Hannibal's list of social graces doesn't include "good with kids." The thought reminds him briefly of Abigail, and he feels like screaming.

Hannibal insists on locating Wally himself, though the speed with which he discovers him under Molly's desk leads Will to believe that he'd known where he was all along. "Wally? That's your name, isn't it? My name is Hannibal." Will can see Wally's sneakers peaking out from under the desk. Hannibal glances up at him, but his expression is inscrutable. Will realizes that he is more curious than anything else.

"Is my dad there?" asks Wally. One sneaker edges forward tentatively.

 _I'm here_ , Will tries to say, but it plays as "umm."

"He is. Why don't you join us?" Will is amazed that Hannibal doesn't simply drag Wally from under the desk by his hair, but waits patiently as the sneakers retreat and a hand reaches out in search of someone. Hannibal helps him to his feet. Will catches the grimace of pain and wonders if Hannibal will survive this. Dried tears streak down Wally's face, but his shoulders are square and he meets Hannibal's gaze. Will swells with pride. "Why are you hiding?"

"You hurt my mom."

"Your mother is sleeping in her bedroom. She will be anxious to see you when she wakes up." Hannibal places a hand on Wally's shoulder and delicately spins him to face Will. For a moment the picture of them is stirring, and Will can see Hannibal guiding a son's hand as they chop fresh cilantro, annunciating words in his native tongue and correcting hesitant syllables. Hannibal dips his head and catches Will's eyes, smiling with bright teeth. "Should he come with us, Will? Or shall history repeat itself?" The lilt of Lully in the background is the perfect touch of surreality. 

"He's part of the deal. If you kill him you'll never have me, not the way you want." The strength of his words belies rising dread. Before Will can calculate his next move, Hannibal has produced a syringe from the pocket of his khakis and sinks it into Wally's neck with practiced ease. Will watches as Wally's eyes go from saucer-wide to half-mast, and he rushes forward to catch him as he falls. Wordlessly, Hannibal moves into the dining room and shuts off the speakers. The silence that follows is deafening, though Will can hear Wally's shallow breath like faraway waves. Will shifts him in his arms, wincing as Wally's head brushes his injured shoulder. Soon, he knows, the adrenaline and the drug will ebb away and leave him in tremendous pain. He almost welcomes it.

He lays Wally on top of the covers next to Molly; tucking him in feels hypocritical. He stands and watches him for several moments and tries to sketch out what his life will be. He hopes he is the worst thing that ever happens to both of them.

"You will make a good father," Hannibal says from the doorway. He is sagging against it, and Will can see that standing takes considerable effort.

"I  _was_  a good father."

They move quietly through the house, and Will pointedly ignores the fishing poles stacked in the foyer, and his boots piled messily in the hallway along with Molly's green umbrella and a tennis ball caked with mud. Hannibal gathers what must be the contents of his medical bag from the living room. Will wonders if maybe he should grab his toothbrush and a change of underwear, and then laughs at the absurdity. Hannibal pays him no heed. Instead, he leads Will outside and then turns with a set of car keys dangling from his finger.

"You must drive," he says. Blood is dripping from Hannibal's side and lands colorlessly in the thick grass. His eyes are hidden in the night. "I will direct you as best I can." His words are clipped and rough, and Will can see all the events of the past twenty-four hours are barreling down on him. Will could easily overpower him and sound the alarm to the FBI. The sedative in his system would work in his favor, though the dinner plates soaking in the sink would take some explaining. He suspects that the death of a dozen agents during Hannibal's "escape" has hardened Jack to slippery explanations.

Will climbs into the truck and flicks on the headlights. Hannibal remains immobile, his silhouette etched in ink. Will waits for what seems like hours until Hannibal moves, but he staggers away from the truck and towards the tiny garage. He removes the latch and throws the doors wide. The dogs leap forward and charge out into the woods, howling.

 

Will can feel the ragged line in his cheek and resists the urge to trace it with his tongue. A perfunctory glance in the rearview mirror leaves him dizzy - it is hard to recognize the face that lines up with his. Part of him knows that his reflection has lost its old quality for reasons other than the Dragon's mark. For some time encounters with mirrors will be vaudeville experiments, the Will on each side trying to trick the other into missing a step and revealing the artifice. But he will always retain human form from now on.

"The next exit, on the right." Will has almost forgotten about Hannibal in the backseat. He was prepared to drive directionless until the road ended.

He doesn't ask Hannibal where they're going. The knowledge of a destination might trigger his instinct to avoid the inevitable - an instinct hurling himself off a cliff was meant to resolve. Best laid plans. For the first time since it's happened Will lets the scene rewind from the shock of the water and the cutting wind. Hannibal's embrace feels like a resolution. It reminds him of being a little boy on the docks and feeling the dull burn of a splinter in his palm from the wood. His father would inspect his skin and give a tsk of worry, and Will would bolt away like a frightened animal. His father would spend hours coaxing him out of child-sized enclosures, and the dread and fear would balloon in Will's throat. He felt the alienness of the splinter and felt akin to it, protective. But the promise of dinner and the cooling air would bring him out into the world, and his father would grasp the splinter's edge with thick fingers and tease it out.

The pain is sharp and exquisite, and the aftermath is unparalleled relief. Gratitude. 

 

They drive for several hours as the sky lightens. Hannibal's breath is quick and raspy. "Please," says Will to no one. The road becomes uneven and the bumps feel like daggers in his skin. They are squeezed between two lines of trees that run forever, and Will hunches down to negotiate large trunks and roots that snake along the edges of the wood. He sees a looming structure between branches, and suddenly he is staring up at a ragged house, dark with huge windows and a rusted iron gate. There is a shadow in the doorframe that glides towards them with purpose.

"Save him," Will says.


	3. Chapter 3

The man who approaches their truck is taller than Will by several hands. It’s hard to make out all of his features in the growing dark, but Will can see deep lines around his mouth and beneath his eyes. His skin is almost perfectly translucent, and it wraps around his bald head like a band. He is looking at Will as if waiting for some further signal.

“Here,” Will says. He opens the backseat and Hannibal all but tumbles out. The man pulls at Hannibal’s shoulders and then scoops him up effortlessly. The two of them climb stone stairs and disappear into the house, leaving Will like the date who wasn’t asked in. His cheek is beginning to sting rhythmically.

He pulls the truck into a stone driveway. His entrance has left deep tracks of mud in the earth, and there are several fresh welts on the truck’s surface where he skimmed thick branches. He wonders if he should disguise it somehow, maybe remove the license plate or park it deep in the woods. Exhaustion makes the decision for him.

The door has been left open, and when Will enters he is struck by the extravagance. His shoes scrape against a marble floor with gold inlay. There are pillars that stretch from the polished marble to a vaulted ceiling, intricate patterns climbing up and resting on the edges of polished wooden beams. Will’s breath echoes in the empty space. There is a chandelier suspended in the hallway, glowing softly.

A trail of blood leads Will into an immense dining room, where Hannibal is laid out on the table surrounded by medical equipment. There is an IV in his arm and a breathing mask over his mouth. Will can hear someone rummaging in the kitchen, and then the man emerges with a tray of shining silver instruments. Hannibal's abdomen is several colors, brown where the blood and betadine collide. Will watches his chest slowly fill and empty, watches his eyelashes flutter and sees the puffs of air cloud his oxygen mask. He feels like crying.

"Who are you?" he whispers. 

"The bullet has gone clean through," the man says. He is bent over Hannibal's stomach, one gloved hand submerged. Will stands there for several moments, transfixed. He has never seen Hannibal quite like this. His pain has always been loud and radiant, full of life, his injuries an amusing afterthought that kept things interesting. Now he is a frail thing, more vulnerable than Will thought possible. He feels himself trembling.

"I think I'm going into shock," says Will.

"Yes." Will feels farther and farther away from the man's voice. He moves into the room and drags a chair to Hannibal's side. He sits and stares blankly as the operation continues, and soon he has drifted away.

 

It's the third time Will wakes from an involuntary stupor in as many days, and it's starting to feel ridiculous. 

There is sunlight stealing in from behind heavy curtains. His mind feels clear, and the pain that follows him into consciousness takes his breath away. He reaches blindly for his glasses before remembering that they are likely in several pieces at the edge of a cliff. The dining room table has been cleared and cleaned. No trace of Hannibal remains. He tries to raise himself out of the chair but cries out and collapses, weaker than before. He is about to steel himself for another attempt when the man enters with a glass of water and a handful of pills.

"His instructions are to tend to you," he says. He offers Will the medicine with some reluctance, though there is a curiosity that Will can sense as their eyes meet. He feels a familiar pull and resists it.

"Thank you," Will says. In another life he would have questioned this gesture and its medicinal value. He swallows the pills gratefully.

As the man turns to leave Will asks for his name. "Leonard," he says, and slips silently from the room.

 

After a few hours Will feels strong enough to explore. His footsteps creak on hardwood that runs down the hallway that abuts the intricate marble. Instinctively he heads up the staircase, and every step sends shocks of pain through his body. He has never been so tired.

He takes stock of the paintings on the wall, some small landscapes with windmills peaking between hills and others depictions of the pieta in gold frames. Will stops and studies what looks like an etching, the corners faded and curling. The Almighty is enthroned in whorling black and red on a chariot drawn by black-eyed steeds. A hunched man stands before him in shame, the world at his feet. As his eyes fall to the inscription Will can sense someone there with him.

Leonard hovers at the top of the stairs, glancing in Will's direction but not meeting his eyes. The familiar urge to crawl into his mind laps at Will in waves. The thought fills him with unease, more than he's come to expect. 

"Where is Hannibal?" he asks. Leonard's gaze is unfocused, and he makes no effort to respond. "Leonard."

With that, Leonard snaps with intention and begins to move down the stairs. Will hesitates, then follows at a distance. They shuffle into the kitchen, where toast and orange juice has been arranged on an island of carved wood. There are beams running along the arched ceiling and a granite countertop that shines white under delicate lights. The floor is cool stone, pleasantly uneven. Silver appliances are tucked into perfectly-placed recesses. It screams _Hannibal_.  _  
_

"Please help yourself," says Leonard after a lengthy silence. "Would you like coffee?" Will, too shocked by the question, simply nods his head. He watches Leonard move around the kitchen reflexively. The idea of someone other than Hannibal inhabiting this kitchen puts a lump in his throat. He swallows around it.

"Where is he?"

Leonard continues to make the preparation for coffee as if he hasn't heard Will's question. Will scans the countertops for a knife block and comes up empty.

"There are no weapons in the house that are not locked away," Leonard says, but then corrects himself. "No  _obvious_ weapons."

Will sidesteps the panic that blooms in his chest and pours himself a glass of orange juice. The pulp is thick on his tongue. "I'm a good improviser," says Will. Leonard pours hot water into the French press and retrieves a mug from the cabinet overhead, barely needing to lift his arm.

Will hadn't been able to try any of the doors upstairs, and isn't sure if Leonard will allow him to stroll unsupervised. He knows Hannibal is alive, is as sure as his own heartbeat. Somehow he knows that Hannibal would never die without him.

"He said to tend to me, you told me. When did he say that?"

"When he woke, briefly. And before." His voice has a strange lilt that Will can't quite place, his words hushed. He pours the coffee and places the mug in front of Will without fanfare. There is no indulgent flourish, no wiping the rim for stray drops.  _Where is he_. 

"Has he asked for me?" Will isn't sure why this is the question he asks, but its urgency leaves him breathless.

"He has everything he needs," says Leonard. "I have him."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone would be interested in beta'ing (real word?), let me know! Happy to return the favor.
> 
> The etching Will was studying: http://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/blake-god-judging-adam-n05063


	4. Chapter 4

For the rest of the morning Will walks slowly through the house. He can't be sure where Leonard is, but the house is old and never ends and there are dark corners too high for Will to reach.

In the kitchen he felt himself begin to open, the dark sliding in like a curtain. Now when he closes his eyes he can see Leonard standing at the top of the stairs again, no eyes in his head, clawed hands reaching softly to him. He hasn't cracked it quite yet. 

In one passageway off the dining room he finds a case of bone and ivory sculptures of insects, wings white and brittle.  There are tiny pincers and stick legs, and ridges in exoskeleton that seem to ripple with life. The butterfly catches him, perched in the corner away from the others. Its form is made for this element, he thinks. The curves of its wings could only be seen this way, not among living creatures. They are colorless. Will sees all the possibilities.

The need to find him is suddenly dire. Will offered to be Hannibal's hostage and no one else's. He convinces himself that he's moved by a sense of propriety.

Since he arrived his senses have been dulled or focused inward, monitoring discomfort. Now he allows them to push outward. His memories of this experience as a child led him to shield himself from it as he entered the world. The feedback was always at maximum, unbearable. After he met Hannibal (A.H., he supposes), he had started to push out again, started to let not only his empathy but the intuition of his body bleed around him. It probably hastened his mental decline with the FBI, but now he is thankful for the skill. Years ago it had helped him see Hannibal when his empathy fell to the power of the mask.

He is not the only breathing thing in this house. He feels one moving steadily toward him, the purpose undefinable. The other is still. It sits above him in a cool silence. Will knows there must be other staircases besides the main, and he searches for the ends of hallways in hopes of finding one. He finds countless rooms, all in lush colors with windows that look out on the forest. The moving thing picks up speed, but does not run. 

Finally, Will finds a tight wooden spiraling staircase that deposits him in what must be the servants' quarters. The ceiling is lower here, and the walls are bare and white. For a moment he hesitates, unsure. Then he closes his eyes and begins to walk.

When he stops he his in front of a narrow door, an electronic keypad embedded in the wall. Its strangeness here threatens laughter. He lays his palm flat against the door, pressing the tips of his fingers hard.

"Hi," he says.

"Hello, Will." 

"How can I get you out?"

"I'm afraid I don't know," Hannibal says. "I admit, I'm surprised you want me out at all."

Will huffs at that, examining the keypad. It asks for a fourteen-digit code.

"Have you tried breaking the door down?"

"Yes. It is reinforced with steel on this side."

Will could maybe guess the last three digits based on the impression of fingerprints. The rest would be pure conjecture.

"What kind of killer is he?" he asks. He hears Hannibal tsk. 

"No fun in that," he says. There is a slight drawl there - Will wonders if Leonard has kept him under mild sedation. Something flushes in his gut, warning.

"He's coming," Will says, his breath quickening.

"Better run along."

"Hannibal," he starts. The questions are limitless. "Would you have killed them, had I not offered to come with you?"

"Yes," Hannibal answers. A hot  _something_ coils up his spine. He leans his forehead against the door. 

"I have to go." Without waiting for a reply Will walks quickly in the opposite direction he came. He finds the second staircase and whisks down them as his body folds back in.

 

As he sits in the dining room Will realizes for the first time that he is wearing his own clothes, clothes from home. Hannibal must have dressed him while bandaging his shoulder. Will imagines his own body limp under Hannibal's manipulation, his arms and legs rising and falling compliantly. The idea is both distressing and fascinating.

Leonard enters with a pot of tea. He places it and a cup on the table near Will, then goes to sit at the head of the table. For a time he avoids Will and stares out the window as if transfixed. When he does turn to face him his eyes linger on the scar on his cheek.

"It is healing," Leonard observes. Will lifts a tentative hand and runs his fingers across it, hissing at the sensitivity. It is larger than he expected.

He pours himself a cup of tea but does not drink it, instead letting the steam wash over skin. Leonard was probably a patient of Hannibal's, or maybe a fellow opera-goer. Their acquaintance came with a shared understanding. Will wonders if they corresponded regularly - _lovely production of Tosca this season, happy hunting_. He is a step above Randall Tier on the foodchain, but not by much. Leonard has fulfilled his end of their mutual understanding, and Will wonders what Hannibal offered in return. When Will looks up Leonard is smiling softly.

"Hannibal described your effect many times. It is quite striking in person." Regular correspondence, then.

"Do you live here? Is this your house?"

"His," says Leonard. Will already knew.

"Will you give me tour?" he asks.

"Of course."

 

Will has already seen most of the rooms on his morning stroll. Leonard does not offer explanations about architecture or style, but simply announces each room's name as they enter. Occasionally Leonard pauses to admire the view from a window.

They arrive in front of a set of double doors, and Leonard produces a key from his pocket. "It is a key to this room only," he says, almost apologetically. When they enter it is all darkness, the drapes drawn against the sunlight. Leonard flicks a switch, and Will feels himself inhale. The room is two stories high, at least, the ceiling domed with a bright chandelier hanging from the center. Shelves line the walls, filled with more books than Will has ever seen. In the middle of the room are two leather chairs, facing each other.

"I will leave you here for a time," Leonard says. "There will be a late lunch, and dinner tonight."

Will listens to the fading footsteps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New! Will sensory skill is New!
> 
> Bone and ivory insects: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/7d/f5/15/7df515557e59952506110db35b17914a.jpg


	5. Chapter 5

The memory comes to him unbidden. It is nearing eight o'clock, and he is Dr. Lecter's last patient of the day. He is writing notes at his desk. "Be there in a moment, Will," he says. Will knows that Dr. Lecter could finish his notes at any other time, that he is likely watching Will, observing how he interacts with objects in the room, how he copes with silence, what his body does in space. It is their third appointment, the stage in every other therapeutic experiment Will has tried when things start to take a turn for the worse.

He tries to control his nonverbal cues, denying physical impulses as they come to him. He still isn't thrilled with the idea of being analyzed at the behest of Jack Crawford, whose idea of pathology begins and ends with what can be cataloged in a museum. He gets the sense that Dr. Lecter doesn't subscribe to that worldview, which is a small comfort, at least.

Unsurprisingly, he recognizes most of the titles on the first few shelves of books, Maslow and Jung thrown in with thick encyclopedias. As he progresses the authors become more and more obscure, until he must lean in to work out the titles. Some of the text is faded with age. There are thin volumes of Dante and Catullus and illustrated anthologies of birds and reptiles. A biography of Lully, novels in Russian. Things get more and more romantic as he goes. He finds himself running his fingers lightly over their spines, tentative. He wants to close his eyes and feel them that way. 

"A collection that has taken a lifetime to cultivate." Dr. Lecter is standing a few feet from him. Will hadn't even noticed.

"A lot of variety," he says, annoyed with himself. Now the impulses come rushing back, and his hand is twitching, the other threading through his hair. His eyes are darting around the room, and he fully embraces the caged animal motif that has become his signature.

"Without variety we can have no appreciation of the everyday," says Dr. Lecter. Will waits for some kind of segue, but Hannibal just stands there.

"Are you taking note of my movements and extrapolating my state of mind?"

Hannibal smiles. "I am wondering what your favorite book was as a child."

The answer is sufficiently shocking, and Will follows him when Hannibal finally leads them to the chairs.

 

He lets his thoughts wander as he stands in Hannibal's church, books touched with light from the bay windows, hardwood polished underfoot. His careful monitoring of the past few hours gives way to the chasm that has waited for him since their fall. The dragon will have been discovered by now, their blood mingled with his on the cold stone. Has Molly told Jack about their visit, or has she taken Wally and the dogs and disappeared? Will can't decide which scenario he prefers. His choice has opened up a void that inches closer with each breath. He knows that Hannibal waits there with the parts of himself that emerged that night, that he buried again when he tossed them from the precipice. Its pull is inexorable. 

He's surprised to realize that he's crying.

 

Leonard has prepared a salad of butternut squash and roasted pecans. Will appreciates the effort and says as much.

"It is nothing," Leonard assures him. Will catches Leonard studying him throughout the meal.

"Something you'd like to ask, Leonard?"

"I am considering making an exception for you," he says after a pause. Will puts down his fork and sits back, waiting. He imagines that Leonard very rarely has conversations with real people. "I would not be averse to showing you my work."

Will piques at that. "I would appreciate that. It would make things easier for me."

Leonard continues to eat his salad, his mouth opening wide with each bite. "It would help you understand."

Later, Will helps Leonard gather the dishes and and offers to dry. They work in a silence tinged with anticipation. Leonard retrieves a clean bowl from a cupboard by the sink and fills it with the remaining salad. "For him," he says. Will has a clear image of Hannibal critiquing the ingredients and proportions while chewing begrudgingly on slightly wilted spinach. He doesn't bother to hide his grin, though Leonard doesn't seem to notice. Will is made to wait in the kitchen while Leonard delivers the bowl, and when he returns they walk down into a tiny foyer and out the delivery entrance. It is the first time Will has been outside since they arrived, and he inhales deeply. The cool air lands heavily in the pockets of his scar. 

The forest is immense and truly beautiful, he thinks. He's always pictured Hannibal in urban settings, save for the Lecter castle cradled in the wilderness. The idea of him in warm, practical clothes and thick boots is infinitely more bizarre than what he's about to do.

Leonard leads him through a copse of trees and into a clearing, and there is a brick outbuilding covered in vines and ivy. Leonard produces a key and his sure steps tell Will that this is home for him. Once inside, he escorts Will to a door that opens to a set of basement steps. They descend in darkness. Will can feel the itch beginning at the base of his spine, but he wants to give Leonard the chance to show him. He hears a click in the dark, and a single bulb stutters before coming to life.

The bodies are hung a few feet off the ground, suspended by a series of hooks and delicate ropes. Leonard weaves his way through them, lightly brushing hips and hands. Will is struck by how well the skin is preserved and sweeps the room for the equipment he knows Leonard must need. Clearly that is done somewhere else.

He approaches a young woman whose head is bent slightly, allowing him to look directly into her face. Her eyes are oddly distended, and at last he can no longer resist the persistent urge to open himself. The pendulum swings.


	6. Chapter 6

When we arrive she is shining like a bell. It is here where she will understand.

I am a skilled surgeon, and now the eyes of others slip into their skulls like a homecoming. Hers will be a dull blue. They have only been waiting for a short time. One must work quickly, or they fade.

I remove them from the freezer and feel the lightness in my hands. I like the touch on my bare skin. Her sockets are plucked and open, and as I sew in her new eyes I feel the final phrase of a sonata, a closing phrase of poetry.

Injustices are righted as I correct them. She had been cursory with others. She was not thoughtful. I have given her the gift of perspective. Like the others she will begin to understand what it is to be kind, what it is to see as another sees.

They hang and watch like sentinels until I find the one whose gift I will receive.

This is my design.

 

Will returns, and his heart beating with the near-death slowness. It speeds when he notices Leonard's grip around his wrist. There is a scalpel in his other hand. Leonard's face is beatific, his expression the same as when he looked upon the trees. He begins to speak, but at first Will can only hear the hiss of breath skimming his ear.

"I have elected to be your recipient," says Leonard. "I will sew them over time, one after the other. The second will be accomplished by touch alone."

"It is necessary," Will adds, his voice even.

"The reflections of your brethren will be inscribed on each lens."

Will doesn't have the strength to fight him. He is weak from the fall and from the Dragon, and Leonard towers over him with a quiet potency. He remembers Hannibal in his tower of steel and wonders how long the latest meal will last him, if he will fade away or die crashing his body against the outside world. Things begin to come into focus.

"Would it be fitting, to begin in this place?" he asks.

Leonard tilts his head, catlike. "Perhaps the forest," he says. "I am fond of the trees."

Will wonders how Leonard will kill him. He had snapped the woman's neck, but the others are less clear. So far their conversation has been civil, as if they were discussing the relative merits of different flavors of jam. He is interested to see how Leonard transforms, and is curious to see whether he will change as well.

Leonard leads him like a child from the basement. 

"Did you know when you first saw me, that mine were the eyes you wanted?"

"Yes," Leonard replies. Will can sense slow alterations beginning in Leonard's blood - a darker color forming. Synapses quicken.

"I'm flattered," says Will, and it's not far from the truth. There is a good chance that he is being lead to his death, but the calm he feels is like a buoy, urging him forward. He tries to pinpoint the origin of this feeling, usually so alien to him. He guesses that it began when he told Hannibal that he needed him. They leave the house behind and walk for several minutes into the thick wood. The sun is setting fast.

Leonard is truly in his element here. How painful it must have been, a raw nerve in a human world where empathy was scarce. It's no surprise to Will that Leonard is drawn to him. Hannibal probably knew it too, bringing them here. Always his plan, or only since the fall? But Hannibal would never let another have him, would die himself before letting anyone else kill him. He must think that Will can stand this, that he is strong enough. The realization lifts Will's heart.

Leonard twists his arm, hard, and Will is on his knees in the mud. A heavy weight lands on the crease of his arm and there is a loud, sickening crunch. A scream rings out and speeds in every direction. Will feels long fingers in his hair. Leonard says something low, almost under his breath. Will inhales thick oil.

He swings his leg out and connects with Leonard's calves. Leonard stumbles but quickly recovers, though the fingers have dislodged. Will feels himself rise up, taller than before. Leonard's fist comes for him. Blocking it with his good arm sends Will reeling backwards. Leonard is a sliver in the dark, slipping quietly through the air. 

In between breaths Will can hear the crunching of leaves from the edge of the clearing. Leonard spins from him and comes tumbling back seconds later, neck twisting from impact. As he falls Will can see Hannibal outlined against the trees, advancing. Will moves forward to kick Leonard in the head, but the man is up and circling, eyes flicking between Hannibal and Will. For a moment the three of them are silent together, waiting. Hannibal is near him like a pressing heat.  _See, Will?_

They move at once. Leonard punches him in the gut, but not before Will elbows the soft flesh of his temple. Hannibal is right there. He tosses Leonard to the ground like a toy, and he follows it with a heel to his ribcage. Then Hannibal withdraws, eyes flashing. Will hears a roar in his skull. 

He bends down and reaches out his hand as if in supplication. As Leonard tries to rise Will plunges three fingers into his eye socket, curling them until he finds the soft curve. Leonard makes a halted, breathy noise. As Will removes one eye the other rolls back until there is only white. Will dips into Leonard's mind and feels the waves of pain and exhilaration rushing over him, along his scalp and skin. Will's broken arm is draped across Leonard's chest, his knees digging into his belly. The warm eye drops between them, and finally Will wraps his hand around Leonard's throat, crushing. It takes longer than it needs to. Will's strength ebbs with each heartbeat. Then Leonard is still beneath him.

Will rolls aside, collapsing. Hands are pulling him up from his shoulders and guiding him until his back is up against cold bark. There are lips on his forehead, on his jagged cheek, down his neck. 

"You got out," he whispers. He repeats it again and again.

Hannibal takes a step back, and Will sees that his shoulder is torn open, the wound fresh. "I surprised myself," he says. "I broke it down."


	7. Chapter 7

Will recovers slowly, leaning against the tree for strength. Hannibal is standing over Leonard's body in contemplation. He looks bemused.

"Where should we put him?" Will asks. He isn't sure that either of them is capable of moving a body at the moment, let alone burying one. Hannibal encircles Leonard slowly.

"He can join the others," he suggests. He doesn't seem to be particularly bothered. Will feels the anger building, but he deliberately ignores it. He moves forward and cradles his broken arm across his chest. A silver blue eye looks up at him from a tuft of grass. "Better gather that as well," Hannibal says. Will scoops it up and tucks it in his shirt pocket. He and Hannibal each take one of Leonard's feet and start dragging.

It is a long, deliberate journey to the outbuilding, and beyond the pain Will notices his anger rising and falling. He can't identify its source, but the concentration it takes to put one foot in front of the other helps assuage it for now. He finds himself analyzing the events of the past twenty-four hours as if they'd happened years ago, the details fuzzy and faded with time. _There's an eyeball in my pocket_ , he suddenly thinks, and he can't help but stop in his tracks and laugh without restraint. Hannibal simply watches him, nonplussed.

When they reach the front door of the outhouse they twist and turn to accommodate each other and Leonard's dead weight, and then Hannibal unceremoniously shoves the body down the flight of stairs. It is very unlike him, and for the first time a surge of panic grips Will's heart. "Hannibal," he says. He reaches out and takes hold of Hannibal's uninjured shoulder, and the touch seems to have an electric effect. Hannibal is shaking almost imperceptibly. Will keeps his hand there and feels how close to the brink Hannibal is. He could push him over it.

"The decision is yours," Hannibal says. His breathing is steady, but Will knows his energy is fading. "I wouldn't resist you. Not after tonight."

Will can see himself plunging a knife into Hannibal's chest and dragging it down and down, the red gash blooming. He could strangle him, like he strangled Leonard, or he could twist his neck all the way around and leave him face down on kitchen floor. He has no concept of time, no idea how long it's been since he lead them over the cliff. His goal had been so clear, then. And even as Hannibal fed him steak in his own house, he was waiting for an opportunity to end him. _And I would have to follow_ , he thinks. Maybe his heart will stop when Hannibal dies, their shared blood halting in their veins. And then he pictures Hannibal as he was last night on the dining room table, helpless and human.  _There you are_ , he says to the rage bubbling up. _I can't do it. I'm sorry._ A switch is flipped.

"Sit here," says Will. He uses his hand to gently push Hannibal into a chair by the basement door. He goes in search of the tools Leonard must have had on hand for his transplantations. In the basement he props Leonard up against the nearest table and eases past cold limbs, ducking beneath each gaze. He tells himself  _no_ over and over. He finds a small bag that contains forceps and surgical scissors. In the kitchen he finds painkillers and gauze.

Hannibal is leaning back in the chair, his head resting against the wall. Will goes to his knees before him.

"What should I do first?"

"Find me a piece of cloth. Good sized." Will goes to the cot in the corner of the room and comes back with a pillow case. Hannibal nods, then wraps the case around Will's shoulder and carefully lifts Will's arm to lay it flat in the sling. 

"Hannibal, I meant what should I do for  _this_ ," he says, gesturing to Hannibal's shoulder. He winces as his arm is guided into position.

"I will take care of it," says Hannibal. His tone brooks no argument. Will sits on the floor with his legs tucked under him like a chastised student. He watches as Hannibal squeezes saline into the raw spaces, and his eyes follow the pink trail that crawls down to his wrist. Hannibal threads a needle and begins stitching his shoulder shut, his face still. Will wonders about the bullet wound. "Rest, Will," Hannibal murmurs. As soon as he says it Will can barely keep his eyes open, the fatigue hitting every part of his body. He slides his legs out in front of him and leans his head against Hannibal's knee. For a time there is no sound but the soft zip of thread through flesh. Then Hannibal replaces the items in the surgical bag and tosses it aside.

"Shouldn't sleep here," mumbles Will. Hannibal cards fingers through his hair and Will sighs deeply, too tired to protest.

"Miegok," Hannibal says. Will fades and doesn't fight it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short interlude between acts - hopefully longer chapters from here on out.
> 
> Apparently "miegoti" means "sleep" in Lithuanian, so here's hoping that's accurate! 
> 
> Edit: Thanks to NamelessTerror for the correction to "miegok."


	8. Chapter 8

When he wakes Will is flat on his back, hard mattress underneath. There is an itchy afghan pulled up to his chin. He knows his eyes are open, but for the moment he can only see dark spots outlined in light, vibrating at the edge of his vision. He blinks and things come into focus. This is where Leonard lived. Sparse furniture and dark curtains, no space for anything but sleeping and cooking simple meals.

And a basement full of new-eyed creatures, vigilant.

As the heaviness of sleep clears Will's mind starts circling up as if from a deep recess. The memory of a human eyeball in his hand worms into his gut. He places a hand on the mattress to rise but a shooting pain shrieks through his arm. He makes a high, desperate sound.

His makeshift sling is tangled in the sheets, woven through his fingers. He uses the other arm to prop himself up and rights the sling, slipping it gently over his head and under his elbow. His clothes are stiff and and grimy. He wonders what his body must look like, if there is physical evidence of the seismic changes he's weathered. He walks to the front door and keeps his attention resolutely trained on the feeling of his muscles contracting and expanding, avoiding the questions that threaten to overwhelm him. He catches flashes of them ( _who am_ ,  _will he,_ _do it_ ) and leaves them hanging in the air. The pain helps. He opens the door and closes his eyes against the sun. _  
_

"You slept for twelve hours." Hannibal's voice is a shock to his system, sending his heart racing. Will feels like he is meeting him for the first time. Hannibal looks out to the forest.

"I must have needed it," Will says. Hannibal is sitting on the porch with a mug between his hands and a patchwork of bandages across his upper body. He looks tired and hurt. Will is surprised to find himself leaning towards him. He decides to follow the impulse forward, but walks out onto the grass and appreciates the the individual blades against the arch of each foot. His shoes have been lost in the flight from the old world to the new.

"Are you hungry?"

"Yes."

"Good," says Hannibal, standing. He retreats inside and returns with Will's shoes and a shirt draped over his shoulders. "We should go back to the main house. Do you feel well enough to walk?"

"Do _you_?" 

Hannibal smiles softly and gingerly pushes his arms through the sleeves of a button down. "I would recommend footwear."

Will tries to come up with a plan of action for tying his shoes with one hand. He's been shot, stabbed, cut open, and thrown off a train, but surprisingly he's never broken an arm before. After a few minutes of unsuccessful fumbling Hannibal kneels and wrests the laces from Will's hand. He ties them with care. "Come," he says. Will follows him into the thicket, willing the flush to recede from his cheeks.

They pass the clearing from last night, neither commenting.  _My knees are unbending, the pain in my arm is pulsing with my heartbeat, I can see the house through the trees._ If he allows himself to depart from this line of thinking he will have no choice but to collapse. He's not sure whether Hannibal will consider that to be a breach of contract - when he accepted Will in exchange for Molly and Wally he likely had terms in mind that didn't include Will comatose and unresponsive on the forest floor. Will puts one foot in front of the other.

Will can sense Hannibal observing him as they approach the house. It's the first time they've arrived here together, really. It is even more impressive in the daylight - each stone is a slightly different shade of grey, a testament to the time and workmanship that built it. The glass in each window is thick and radiant with light. The iron gate must be decades old, maybe centuries, the top of it cast in the skeletal shape of a lion. Hannibal pulls it open, but Will hesitates before moving through it. This will be irreversible, he knows. _Just k_ _eep your end of the bargain,_ he tells himself. But there is a part of him that would go through this gate regardless of Molly and Wally's safety, maybe even at their peril.  _Who am I? Will he ever let me go? Do I want him to?_

He steps through and listens to the stones crack and shift underfoot. 

"It's beautiful, Hannibal," he says. He nods towards the house, feeling the need to clarify.

"I purchased it about fifteen years ago," says Hannibal. "Leonard alerted me to its availability. He inherited it from his father, after Leonard killed him. He had always wanted his father to see him differently, as it happens. I extolled the therapeutic value of performing the transplant, though I'm afraid at that time his technique was less than polished. He would have done a fine job with you."

"Of course."

As they enter Hannibal goes immediately to the kitchen. Will hears cupboards opening and dishes sliding on marble countertops, purposefully placed. He shuffles in after him, holding his sling as he settles onto a seat at the island. He sits in silence, watching. Hannibal knows everything by heart. He reaches instinctively for spices and moves with easy confidence to the stove and the double-wall ovens and back. He disappears into a pantry that Will can see is filled with produce and hanging herbs. When he comes back, his arms are laden. 

"Can I help?" he asks. Hannibal deposits the vegetables on the counter, picking up a knife.

"You're my guest," Hannibal answers. 

"Am I?"

Hannibal pauses, then replaces his chopping knife on the counter. When he turns Will catches the glint in his eyes, the first he's seen it since the cliff's edge.  _My heart is racing, my hand is on my knee, my mind is empty._

"It was your choice to come here." Will wants to tell him that it was the furthest thing from a choice, that he threw them both from a _cliff_ , for chrissake, that he is only here to save his wife and son, who he loves. Instead he just nods. "You are wondering what I had in mind, when I said yes. You must have had some idea."

"Some," says Will. His voice sounds small.

"I want you as you were last night," says Hannibal, returning to the counter. The quick knocking of the knife against the cutting board rings out like gunfire. Will must look sufficiently disheveled, because Hannibal insists that he shower before dinner. "You will find everything you need through the second door to right of the staircase. I will call you when it is time."

Will feels glued to the seat and has a hard time finding the momentum to stand. He wonders if he will need as much help getting out of his chair as he needed tying his shoes. Finally he drags himself from the kitchen and up the stairs, catching the faint sound of Hannibal humming.

 

The room is bare and understated, two qualities Will would never have ascribed to anything Hannibal owned. The bedding is a quiet navy blue, the curtains grey and simple. There is plain wooden chair in the corner and a table beside it, empty. But then Will sees the desk by the window. It is outfitted with everything he would need: pliers, dubbing twisters, a stainless steel vise. There are feathers and thread neatly arranged in every color he could want. 

_My mind is empty, my mind is empty, my heart is racing._

He retreats from the desk as if stung by it. He is terrified to uncover what else might be in this room - shirts in his size or reading glasses of the right strength. In the bathroom he finds scentless soap and shampoo next to a stack of clean towels. He picks up the toothbrush by the sink. How long has it been waiting for him?

He turns the water up to the hottest setting and stands under the stream fully clothed. The water is brutal, tearing at him. He removes his socks and struggles out of his pants, the caked-on dirt sliding into the drain. He unbuttons his shirt and tosses it behind him. It makes a heavy, wet sound. A human eyeball rolls between his feet, staring up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love all of your feedback! Really helps in guiding this story.


	9. Chapter 9

They could have easily fit at the kitchen table, but Hannibal insists on the dining room. There are tall candles lit at the center of the table, circled by a wreath of berries and twined bundles of wood. Tiny branches curl up from pots of soil, their leaves so orange as to be artificial. There are green and violet mums, stemless, strewn across the hardwood. Will sighs deeply, torn between exasperation and wonderment. 

Hannibal arrives balancing two plates on one arm. He places one in front of Will and lingers there. "Cocoa-cured lamb loin with olive-pear relish," he explains. Before moving to his own place at the table he reaches for a bottle of wine on the sideboard and pours a splash for Will. "Merlot to complement the richness of the lamb." Will stares ahead at the candles, watching the flames flicker and rebound. "Taste it first, to see if you like it." Obediently, Will picks up the glass and allows the wine to skate across his tongue. Some brushes up against the scar along his cheek, burning lightly. Will nods, and Hannibal pours him a full glass.

Light music trickles in from another room, but Will can't place it. His fork is in his hand, though he doesn't move to eat. Hannibal is motionless across from him, seemingly miles away.

"You said you were hungry, Will," he says with a hint of rebuke. In response, Will swallows his wine in one gulp. Hannibal clicks his tongue in disapproval. "That's no way to savor a vintage."

Hannibal's gunshot wound is barely healed, his shoulder a major handicap. But to Will he seems at full strength, spine straight and eyes alight. Not long ago Hannibal was unconscious on this very table, weaker than Will had ever seen him. Last night Will had been able to guide him with ease. Now he sits before the man who held Molly's full weight in his hand, who dragged them from the ocean and climbed to the top of a cliff, superhuman. Will lets the fear wash over him, marking its progress across his body.

"I've lost my appetite," he says.

Hannibal cocks his head with predatory interest. "You are vacillating between civility and shocking rudeness, Will. First you compliment the estate with apparent sincerity and offer to help with the meal, and now you refuse my hospitality. I wonder if this new reticence is a product of the denial you've espoused."

"I'm not denying anything. I'm here with you."

"Physically, perhaps."

"And that's not enough?" He knows it isn't.  

Hannibal stands and clears the plates. When he returns he his carrying a bowl of steaming water and a hand towel over his wrist. "I will change your bandages. Were you able to keep them dry in the shower?"

The thought hadn't even occurred to him. Apparently his silence is answer enough. "Come," Hannibal says. He leads them to the library, and Will finds the source of the music - a gramophone balanced on a slim pedestal, brass horn pointed out. Hannibal gestures to one of the leather chairs. 

"I haven't made an appointment, Doctor Lecter."

"You have unfettered access." Hannibal kneels beside him when Will sits down. "Remove your shirt, please." Will unbuttons the shirt with one hand, embarrassed by how long it takes. He takes off the sling and then shrugs out of the shirt, wincing as the sleeve twists his broken arm at the elbow. "Ideally I would cast it, but I'm afraid I don't have the necessary supplies. You will have to wear the sling for several weeks at least. I can recommend daily exercises to increase mobility."

"I'll make sure to follow up with my primary care physician."

"Such insolence," says Hannibal, but Will can see the subtle grin. The bandages on Will's shoulder are loose and hanging from his skin, splotches of red visible underneath. Luckily it's the opposite shoulder from the broken arm, although maybe it would have been better to have everything in one place, as it were. Hannibal speaks to him as he cleans and redresses the wound. "This will need regular cleaning but should heal relatively quickly. Try to keep the bandages dry while you bathe, if possible. The stitches in your cheek should dissolve on their own. You seem to be able to articulate well despite the injury, though I would encourage you to refrain from speaking overmuch."

"I thought you wanted to resume my therapy," Will says. "What's a patient that can't talk, doctor?"

Hannibal finishes wrapping the last of the bandages to hook under Will's armpit and around his shoulder, then helps Will fit into his shirt and sling. He sits back on his heels and tries to catch Will's gaze, but Will is feeling brazen. He rises out of the chair and stalks over to the windows, coming close enough that his breath clouds it with each exhale. The sun had set some time ago, and the trees are dim outlines that on and on. Soon there will be more stars than he can count, maybe the band of the Milky Way visible overhead. It is an utterly dark place from this vantage point, the light spilling from the house barely penetrating the thickness. He feels Hannibal approach behind him but doesn't turn around.

"Do you need me to do anything? For the bullet wound?"

"Leonard was a competent surgeon," Hannibal assures him. "I should be able to manage it myself."

"Are you sorry I killed him?" As soon as he says the words Will feels himself start to tremble.  _I'm trembling as a response to stress, my arm is sore, oh god what am I doing here, what have I done, my heart..._

For a moment Hannibal is still behind him, barely breathing. Then he whisks away and arrives at the gramophone, turning up the volume slightly. Will watches him.

"Do you like Chopin?" Will shrugs eloquently. "This is his Nocturne number two in E flat."

"I know it," Will says, not a little surprised. 

"So you should. It is one of his most played." Hannibal stands with his hands in his pockets, his eyes closed. Then he holds out his hand, and Will knows it is not a request.

"I - "

"For your wife and son," says Hannibal. "Who are alive because you offered yourself to me."

Will moves as if powered by something external, a string pulling him along by the top of his head. Hannibal takes him by the waist, and Will's broken arm sits uncomfortably between them until Hannibal gently removes the sling and maneuvers Will's forearm to rest on Hannibal's good shoulder. Will grabs at Hannibal's shirt with his other hand and squeezes it between his fingers. They don't move at first, taking a few breaths to acclimatize to the close proximity. Then Hannibal guides him backwards, and Will is being lead in a slow waltz, slow enough for him not to trip over himself too badly. His trembling has stopped.

"I'm not sorry you killed him, Will," Hannibal murmurs against his ear. "That is how I would have you, always. Magnificent."

_My heart is..._

"How did it feel, to hold his throat in your hand?"

Will shakes his head, feeling Hannibal's mouth at his earlobe. "I can't."

Hannibal is silent after that, and the music fades until it is replaced with the rhythmic skipping of the record. Hannibal disengages abruptly and Will's arm falls to his side, hot pain racing through him.

"We have all the time in the world." 

Will stands in the center of the room, clutching his arm, and Hannibal leaves him to listen to the record scratch into nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanted to get this chapter out ASAP. Really appreciate the feedback, as always!
> 
> Recipe: http://www.bonappetit.com/recipes/slideshow/lamb-slideshow/?slide=9
> 
> Also, feel free to hit me up on Tumblr here: http://llamily.tumblr.com/ for prompts or questions or to say hi!


	10. Chapter 10

As it turns out, they  _don't_ have all the time in the world.

Will didn't sleep last night, so when he enters the kitchen in the morning he is all but stumbling, sagging into the nearest chair at the table. There is a tablet a few feet away and Will pulls it toward him, too curious to question its presence. He's prompted for a five digit passcode. He tries the last five numbers of Hannibal's cell phone, then the last five numbers of  _his_ cell phone. It's wrong, but something tells him he's on the right track. He enters 13271, and a whooshing sound confirms that it's been unlocked. It is Will's BSHCI inmate number.

 _KILL THE BEAST: AGENT IN CHARGE OF FBI BEHAVIORAL SCIENCE UNIT QUOTED AS SAYING "WE'RE NOT SAFE UNTIL HE'S DEAD."_  

Under the headline is a picture of Hannibal and Will from a crime scene. The caption reads: "Wife of ex-profiler Will Graham confirms that the special agent was kidnapped after Lecter's cliffside escape." Will looks at the picture and feels like an interloper, like he is being given access to a private moment. Hannibal is slightly behind him, not looking at the camera or even the crime scene but at the back of Will's head. Will's back is arched slightly, his shoulders reaching back. One of his hands is in his hair, but the other one hangs by his side and sways backwards. Hannibal's hips are tilted forward, his hands in his pockets. It's a picture of two people who look like it hurts to be separated.

"According to the article, Jack is hot on my trail. Freddie's words, not mine." Hannibal enters without looking at Will, going straight to the French press. 

"How long are we safe here?"

Hannibal stiffens for a split second, then resumes making coffee. "We?"

Will backpedals. "It says I'm your hostage. Aren't I going with you?"

"You are not my hostage, but if you'd like to keep your end of our agreement then I suggest you come with me, yes."

"Hostage, then."

"I am just surprised by your choice of pronoun."

"You and I. We."

Hannibal steps aside to let the coffee brew. "We can stay here for a day or two at the most. There are cameras set up along the entrance, and an alarm is tripped whenever a vehicle crosses into the property. We will have some warning."

"Is that how Leonard knew? He was waiting for us, when..."

"I imagine so."

Hannibal takes two mugs from the drying rack and pours them each a cup. Will's is served black with one teaspoon of sugar. His preference.

"What's your plan?"

Hannibal raises his eyebrows. "So that you can undermine it?"

Will shakes his head, but doesn't feel like explaining. Trying to undermine one of Hannibal's plans would be akin to putting a bullet in Molly's head himself. 

The coffee is good, and the liquid hitting Will's stomach reminds him how hungry he is. "Would you like some breakfast?" Hannibal asks. Will supposes that he should refuse to eat, make this as difficult for Hannibal as possible. But in reality he is tired and his mind is spent, trying and failing to remain detached. He nods gratefully. 

Hannibal seems pleased. He finishes his coffee and begins moving about the kitchen, confident as before. Will leans his chin on his hand and allows his eyes to close.

 

"Will. Will..."

His name tugs at him, piercing the blackness from somewhere outside. His eyelids are so heavy. His first attempt to open them is not successful - he ends up squinting, burrowing further down into sleep.

"Will." A hand is cupping his cheek, thumb running over the bone. 

"Hmm," he says.

"Breakfast." The smell is what finally gets him. When he opens his eyes there are poached eggs over asparagus, thick slices of Parmesan balanced on top. He inhales a hint of lemon. Hannibal doesn't have to encourage him before Will starts eating. "I see your objections to my cooking have fallen by the wayside."

"It wasn't your cooking," says Will between mouthfuls.

"I see," says Hannibal. They finish the meal wordlessly, and Hannibal collects the plates before Will can object.

"Let me."

"I don't expect you to wash dishes with a broken arm," Hannibal chides. Will stands and hovers at Hannibal's side, as if moral support will help get his intention across. 

"Thank you," he says, despite himself.

"For?"

Will wants to thank him for breakfast and for cleaning the plates, at least that's what it starts as, but then he veers without warning.

"For saving my life." He brings a hand to lightly touch Hannibal's shoulder. "For this."

"It's nothing," Hannibal says, but his voice is rough.  _Retreat!_ Will tells himself. He stays.

 

Hannibal agrees to show him the basement. There is a panel of screens against the wall, each capturing a different angle of the road to the house. One is trained to the outbuilding, and for some reason it bothers Will that what they'll find first is Leonard's discarded body, one eye missing and rigor mortis well underway.  _You did that_ , he thinks, but he stamps it out. There is a flash on one of the screens, and then a second one picks up a human figure advancing quickly along the side of the path, head down. Will feels his heart race.

"It's Chiyoh," says Hannibal.

"Jesus!" Will gasps. He feels the need to lean against something. "What did you do, send a carrier pigeon?"

"A radio signal."

"Jesus," Will says again. Chiyoh glances at one of the cameras overhead, aware of their presence, before making her way to the outbuilding. She unlocks it with a key that hangs around her neck. "What is she doing?"

"She will remain there until the time comes."

"Jesus."

"So you've said."

"I'm sorry. I'm done, I'm sorry. Jesus."

Hannibal chuckles, placing a hand at the small of Will's back. Will lets himself be guided up the stairs. Hannibal turns and locks the door. "I have placed something in your room. It pains me that we cannot spend more time here, but given the circumstances it would be wise if we left tomorrow, or perhaps the following day. Regardless, I'd hoped to share this place with you for an extended stay. Tonight will have to do."

Share this place. The idea is contrary to the hostage narrative that Will has been clinging to, but that never rang true to begin with. He won't admit that to Hannibal. And he's here to keep Molly and Wally safe. Yes.

"Will you join me for dinner in the dining room at seven o'clock?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Until then." Hannibal bows shallowly, which sends an uncomfortable blush up Will's neck. As Hannibal withdraws Will feels himself inadvertently pushing outward, tracing his movements. Hannibal ascends the staircase and turns right where Will would turn left. Will can hear and sense a door opening and closing, and then Hannibal fades away in a slow retreat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deducing Will's BSHCI number from this photo: http://www.nbc.com/sites/nbcunbc/files/files/images/2014/3/07/140307_2755012_Finding_a_Killer_with_a_Killer.jpg 
> 
> Also I couldn't really find a picture of them at a crime scene, but would love to see any that folks can scrounge up!
> 
> Recipe: http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/anne-burrell/grilled-asparagus-with-poached-egg-parmigiano-and-lemon-zest-recipe.html


	11. Chapter 11

The suit Hannibal has laid out for him is dark blue. It is accompanied by an off-white shirt and a pale blue tie, lightly patterned with thin diagonal lines. Will stares at the ensemble warily, half expecting it to animate on its own and strangle him. There is a note pinned to the collar. 

_I guessed your measurements, so please forgive the fit. It would please me if you wore this to dinner. - H_

Will has no doubt that the fit will be exquisite, that the color will perfectly complement his eyes. It almost makes it worse. He crawls onto the bed, fully clothed, and turns to stare at the desk. On the hook of the vise is a red feather, wrapped tightly in silver twine.

 

He is asleep within minutes, and when he arrives he dreams. 

The dragon is bleeding on the stone, forming red wings. He is dying, and Will leans down to catch the words that are falling from his moving lips. "Take him," he says. "He can't be alone." Will shakes his head, not understanding. Then the wings fold up around the body, and when they extend again there is nothing but black shadow, formless and small. It curls around Will's wrists, beneath his arms, cooling his head. Will feels himself smiling, twirling his fingers as the wisps of smoke dance between them. It settles around Will like a shadow, and as it lingers it seems to gain strength, enough to whisper close to Will's ear. 

"You are like unto a leopard, your feet the feet of a bear, your mouth as the mouth of a lion," it chants. Then the gentle coolness rips into Will's flesh, rending it and rebuilding it with dark cloud. Will is paralyzed, his mouth wide in a soundless scream.

The world is shuttering, and a voice drifts from below, bubbling from the surface of the sea. "This is all I ever wanted for you, Will. For both of us."

 

He wakes covered in sweat, hair plastered to his forehead. There is a slimy feeling in his stomach, and he rushes to the bathroom and barely makes it before he is violently ill, gasping for breath. He sits back against the tiled wall and concentrates on the swell of his lungs.  _My lungs are expanding, contracting._ His spine is loose, somehow, shivering. 

He gets up and finds that the room is in darkness. He trails is hand along the wall in search of a light and finds one near the bathroom door. His pillow is covered in blood, and Will realizes that his bottom lip is torn. He's surprised that the pain of biting down into it didn't wake him. He sucks his lip into his mouth and holds it there, tasting. 

He rinses in the shower, finding it difficult to stand without losing his balance. Then he sets about peeling back the layers of the suit until he sees it in all its component parts: pants, jacket, shirt, tie. He goes to the bureau against the wall and opens the top drawer, finding grey boxers and folded socks. The process of dressing is arduous, his one good arm working at odd angles, twisting so that his shoulder aches. He gives up when it's time for the tie. Thankfully his shoes are laceless. The clock on the desk tells him it's 7:30. 

The hallway is ten degrees cooler, he thinks. The dream is ebbing, though its threat hangs over him patiently. Oddly, he is not bothered by what Hannibal might to do him for being late. He is grateful just to be awake.

He reaches the top of the stairs and finds Hannibal waiting at the bottom. Hannibal is wearing a black tuxedo, so different from the plaid and tweed and frills of Baltimore. His short hair is slicked back, his shoes reflecting the light from the chandelier. He looks at once younger and older. 

"You're late," Hannibal says.

"I fell asleep," Will rasps. He clears his throat. Suddenly Hannibal is climbing the stairs towards him, and Will tells himself to hold his ground. Hannibal stops one step from the top and takes hold of the ends of the tie that fall to Will's chest. 

"Allow me," he says. Will wants so many things - he wants to push Hannibal down the staircase and grab onto his lapels, holding him, rest his head against him like he did on the cliff, smash his face into the railing. Instead he stands as still as he can, eyes cast down to watch Hannibal's hands rise and fall. "Done."

"Thanks." Hannibal turns, and Will follows him.

This time the table setting is much simpler. It is covered in a cloth of deep purple, and in the center is a gold vase with roses diving out. There are platters on the sideboard and Hannibal removes the lids one by one before placing them on the table. Will sees meat that he doesn't recognize, embellished vegetables and a stew that smells like autumn. He waits for Hannibal's explanations, but none are forthcoming. Hannibal raises an eyebrow, a mirror of Will's own, and takes his seat.

"What did you dream about?"

"I didn't dream."

Will helps himself and picks at his food, enjoying the bites when he can stomach them.

"You're not well," Hannibal says.

"Just nauseated," says Will dismissively. He bypasses the water and goes straight for the wine.

"Alcohol will only aggravate it."

"The pros outweigh the cons," Will answers. Hannibal does not try to push the issue, for which Will is appreciative. Hannibal has already tied his shoes and his tie - if he tried to take the wine away Will might throw a tantrum in accordance with the theme.

Neither of them eat much before Hannibal stands to clear the table. Will pours himself another glass of wine.

"I take it you would rather skip dessert," Hannibal calls from the kitchen. "I will save it for another time."

"What other time?"

"We may yet have occasion for one more meal here."

Will follows his impulse to walk away, finds himself drifting between rooms, then looking out into the night from the foyer. There is a tendril of smoke rising from the outbuilding. He returns to the dining room in search of the wine, but it and Hannibal are both gone. Music starts up from the library. 

When he enters there is a fire lit and a glass of whiskey waiting on the wide arm of a leather chair. Hannibal is nowhere to be found.

Will loosens his tie after placing his empty wine glass on the nearest shelf. The roiling in his belly picks up again. He distracts himself by pacing the room, reliving moments just like this in Hannibal's office. Off to the right there is a door he hadn't noticed before, settled between two free-standing bookcases. When he opens it he finds a small closet. There is a basket of tennis balls on the floor, silver dog bowls stacked on the first shelf. Several slip leads hang from a post on the wall, and leather leashes are arranged by color in a large wooden box, W.G. engraved on its lid.

Will stumbles away, the wind knocked out of him. He lands in Hannibal's arms, whose chest is firm and steady against his back.

"Shhh," says Hannibal. 

"No no no, please,  _please_ , no." Will struggles halfheartedly, then turns and connects his forehead to Hannibal's shoulder. It's the bad one, unfortunately. "Oh fuck," Will says at Hannibal's wince. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"Be still." Will obeys him, but now he is looking directly into Hannibal's face. 

"My dream..." he starts. Hannibal lifts a hand to Will's forehead, keeping it there as if to check his temperature. Then his hand falls to Will's cheek, then behind his head and down to the nape of his neck.

"So resistant. So fearful."

Will's breath picks up, and he feels like he's just run a mile. There is a definite choice here, different from the one he made at the home he and Molly shared. For once he does not feel Hannibal's influence, merely his steadfast presence. Its absence has a crippling effect. He feels unmoored, can see both paths and hates them equally. Then the sensation of holding Leonard down with his weight returns to him, the slickness of the eye coating his fingers, not killing for any reason other than the need to have Hannibal with him as he does. The splinter removed.

"Help me," he says. Hannibal kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Throwing some Titanic in here for us fangirls.
> 
> Dinner from the movie: http://cdn.cinemagrapher.com/2013/9/2/1852790548_1506084734.gif


	12. Chapter 12

"Please," he says, not sure what he's asking. Hannibal's tongue traces the wound on his bottom lip. Will jerks back but Hannibal follows him, hands holding his face. Will's broken arm is crushed between them. They land on the arm of the leather chair, whiskey glass falling to the floor and shattering. "Hannibal. Hannibal, stop." There is a panicked feeling building in his chest, and even without Hannibal's lips on his it would be difficult to find breath. He jerks back again but is held firm. " _Stop._ " This time he shoves Hannibal with his good arm, gaining enough space to slip away. 

"W -"

"Don't say it. I can't listen to you say my name." He closes his eyes, trusting that Hannibal will allow him these few moments. "Just let me breathe."

He has inhabited the minds of killers who bury people alive, sew them together and consume their organs, but he's never been more overwhelmed than he is now. When he opens his eyes he takes Hannibal in, his hair sticking up at angles, his eyes wide with - fear? It's ridiculous, but there it is. Hannibal looks as terrified as Will feels, and without thinking Will returns to him, standing close enough to touch. He doesn't, yet. He feels rage uncoil, the same he felt when he realized he had lost the urge to kill this man. It had been his familiar, his trusted companion all these years. Now he knows it goes deeper.

"I need your help, Hannibal," he breathes. "But you - you  _can't_ \- it can't be as it was before."

Hannibal reaches out to him, and Will catches his wrist and wrenches it back, driving Hannibal into the closest bookshelf with sudden strength. He bites down on Hannibal's neck and a thrill races through him at the sound Hannibal makes, the tiny gasp.

"It's my choice," says Will.

"Yes."

"Not yours."

"Yours."

Will drags his lips up Hannibal's neck to hover over his mouth. Hannibal's breath is in Will's throat, the sound of it booming in his skull. "Mine," Will says, and crashes their lips together. For a beat it is just that, a crash, until Hannibal's mouth opens and Will's tongue skirts forward he tastes him, thinking  _this is it_. He cheek is throbbing but he ignores it, leaning closer. Hannibal wraps one arm around Will's hips and the other around his upper back. The embrace is tight but not unescapable. Will has never kissed a man before - the need to tilt his head up instead of down is disorienting, as is the rough scrape of stubble against his jaw. He finds it exhilarating. 

When they part for breath Will places his hand on Hannibal's chest and watches it move with Hannibal's heartbeat. His fingers trail down and he squeezes at Hannibal's hip, guiding him forward until there is no space between them, only the wrinkled fabric of their suit jackets. Hannibal is hard, and Will moves his hips to get a sense of it. He exhales on a groan.

"Touch me," he says. Hannibal's hand circles around to Will's stomach, then lower as he palms Will's cock through the fabric. 

"This?" Hannibal asks. His voice is different, more resonant than before. Will feels it in every part of his body.

"Oh god..."

"Tell me."

"Fuck. Just fuck me, just hold me, oh god." When Hannibal kisses him again it is slow and wet, their mouths wide, Will's tongue in Hannibal's mouth. He feels dizzy. Hannibal nudges him and leads them to one of the chairs. He starts unbuttoning his jacket, toeing each shoe off and letting the jacket slide to the floor. His carelessness sends a wave of hunger straight to Will's cock. He doesn't wait for Hannibal to finish undressing before lunging forward and capturing his mouth. His fingers find purchase in Hannibal's hair. Hannibal sits back into the chair and Will straddles his lap, bearing down to brush their cocks together. Hannibal reaches up and unties Will's tie, breaking the kiss to work on the buttons of Will's jacket and shirt. "How long have you wanted...god, we're doing this. Please, please. Oh god."

"I've always wanted you," Hannibal says. Will's jacket and shirt are gone, and Hannibal scrapes his teeth over Will's nipple. 

Will stands up to shuck his pants and boxers, but he hesitates before moving forward again. The impulse to withdraw into his empathy comes to him like a prayer, so easy. If he did that he would be moving for Hannibal, molding himself to Hannibal's desire. It can't be.

"Will," Hannibal says, and the only way to describe it is tremulous. "Come back."

Will loves him for not standing to draw him in, for waiting. His skin is on fire, and the idea of Hannibal touching him is almost too much, almost unbearable. He tips forward, and this time Hannibal does reach if only to steady him. His hand is on Will's chest, and his eyes are dark as he looks up into Will's face. He keeps them there as he takes Will into his mouth.

" _Shit_ ," says Will. Hannibal's lips are stretched over his cock, sliding down halfway and then up again, his tongue circling the head. Will breathes quickly through his nose, his brow knitted. 

"Your decision," Hannibal says as he kisses down his length. He holds the base of Will's cock with one hand as the other reaches around to cup his ass, fingers digging in. "Yours." Then he holds the tip in his mouth, motionless. Will closes his eyes feels himself shiver, the fear and anger still there but anchoring him, soothing his nerves. When he looks back down at Hannibal he sees the wide pupils, the tight jaw and heaving chest.  _Waiting for me._

Will fucks into his mouth, allowing his head to tip back. Hannibal moans around his cock, opening his mouth wider, and Will is unhinged. He picks up his pace and Hannibal takes it, just takes it. The hand on Will's ass tightens, fingers slipping down to tease at his entrance, and Will is shocked to hear himself whining, begging. Hannibal slides his hand up to Will's mouth and Will takes three fingers in, and after a few seconds Hannibal lets Will's cock slip from his mouth and surges upwards, kissing Will around his fingers. There is heat rolling off Hannibal and Will bends to it. He tears away and wraps his fingers around Hannibal's dick, reveling in the strangeness. His broken arm rests on Hannibal's shoulder. Will ducks his head and leans against Hannibal's chest.

"Never done this. You feel so heavy." Will lightly twists his hand and Hannibal shudders against him. He moans in sympathy. Hannibal's hands are in his hair, then they pull him in for another kiss, this one frenzied - almost punishing. Hannibal brings his hand under Will's chin and tilts his hand back, sucking at his pulse point. "Hannibal -"

"What do you want?"

"I don't know if I can take it."

"You can, but you have to say it."

"Fuck me," he says harshly. Then he looks into Hannibal's eyes - something he's always shied away from - and whispers, "Please."

Hannibal grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little teaser before the main event ^_~


	13. Chapter 13

Will braces himself for some decisive action from Hannibal - he has no way of predicting what it will be. He is bewildered when Hannibal turns and stalks away, leaving the door open wide. It says _follow me_. Will starts to reach down for his clothes but stops himself. He is slowly shedding his skin. 

He hears Hannibal's footsteps on the stairs, hears a door opening. There is soft light edging out into the hallway. He goes to it. When he turns to enter what he assumes his Hannibal's bedroom, he comes face to face with himself. The mirror above the bed is handsomely appointed, like all of Hannibal's possessions. It is faded with age but sharp enough to display him clearly, the scars painted along his stomach and cheek and forehead, the stiffness of his cock, his unkempt beard. If he stares at it long enough Will imagines that he could see other versions of himself, other people and places that could have been home for him. For now he just sees a trickster, still evading discovery.

"What do you see?"

"Hannibal," Will says, feeling his absence. Hannibal emerges but stays out of the mirror's path.

"The mirror, Will."

Will opens his mouth to answer, to tell him the disheartening truth, but when his lips part the shadow bleeds out, circling his head like a wreath. It had hurt so much going in. Now it settles in the curls of his hair, runs down his back and buoys him with affection and the dark promise of need. 

"I killed him," he gasps.

"Yes."

"I killed both of them. Oh, Hannibal."

"What do you see, Will?"

He closes his eyes, internalizing it. He feels the shadow kiss across his cheek, into the grooves stitched together by thin thread. The horror is there, and he revels in it, dances beneath it. He sees himself as Hannibal sees him.

"Beauty," he says.

Hannibal comes to him then, lips grazing his eyelids and mouthing gently at his wound, finding his lips. Fingers curl around his cock and Will huffs a breath through his nose, grabbing Hannibal's bicep and holding on. The journey to the bed is slow and interrupted with kisses and once by Hannibal dropping down to take Will into his mouth again, and everything is much more tender than it had been mere minutes ago. When Will falls back on the bed Hannibal covers him immediately. He feels their cocks slide together and he whimpers, but he knows it is not a sound of weakness. Power lurks beneath.

Hannibal is careful with his injuries, and Will wants to tell him not to bother. "When you are well we will do this again," Hannibal says. "And I will devour every inch of you." Will chokes on what could be a laugh or a sob, wrapping his hand around them flush against each other. His fingers don't quite make it, but he strokes like he would stroke himself, quick and then squeezing lightly at the tip. Hannibal's foreskin brushes against the head of Will's cock and Will bites his lip, reopening the cut. He welcomes Hannibal's tongue, tastes his own blood as he kisses Hannibal and runs his tongue along his teeth. Hannibal is shaking slightly, and Will lets the tendrils of his empathy brush against Hannibal's mind. Hannibal shifts, as if sensing it.

"You're nervous," says Will, almost smiling.

"I had thought tasting your blood would have unintended consequences."

Will feels himself grow impossibly harder. "The logical progression," he offers.

"I'm told that certain states of being necessarily preclude logic."

Will's breath hitches. He pulls Hannibal to him and bucks his hips. "Fuck," he says, barely a whisper. He sighs into Hannibal's mouth, the flavor of blood fading as Hannibal maintains gentle pressure on his lip. Then Hannibal's hand joins his around their cocks and Will's cry is swallowed down with the blood, mingling. Hannibal draws back, reaching for something on the bedside table. His other hand traces Will's lips and Will sucks him in, hot anticipation melting into his chest and down his spine. His hips roll against Hannibal's thigh. When Hannibal removes his fingers Will moans at their loss, and he hears Hannibal chuckle lightly somewhere below him. 

"We'll have to explore that," he says. Will wants to respond but finds words lacking as Hannibal closes his mouth around one of his balls, nipping at the skin with the same teeth that ripped the flesh from a killer's throat. Will tries and can't bite back another moan. He's shocked by how vocal he's become. The sounds he's making are brand new, his voice trying them for the first time. Hannibal keeps his hand on him, idly stroking.

He hisses as the first finger enters him, slick with lube but stinging and foreign. He remembers the feeling of Hannibal's cock in his hand and can't fathom how this is going to work. When Hannibal adds a second finger Will grits his teeth, the desire for this tempered with uncertainty. Then Hannibal takes his hand from Will's cock and replaces it with his mouth, and his free hand snakes up Will's chest and up to his lips, pushing two fingers into Will's mouth. 

"Mmph god," says Will. He mimics the rhythm Hannibal has set around his cock and inside him, sucking as the fingers push in and the mouth descends. As a third finger slips in Hannibal offers another at Will's lips, and Will aches for it, drags his tongue over the thickness in his mouth and inadvertently bears down. His head slams into the pillow as he arches his back. "Oh god oh god oh god."

The fingers withdraw and Hannibal kisses him with something close to desperation. Will can feel Hannibal's heart racing.

Hannibal draws Will's leg up and over his shoulder, and suddenly he's inside him and Will's pupils are blown wide and his mouth is hanging open, and it hurts but if he stops Will will really lose his mind, this will be what finally does him in. He summarizes this experience for Hannibal as best he can: " _Fuck._ "

Hannibal doesn't speak for once, just watches Will's lips as he pushes in, then he drops his gaze to Will's chest, to the place where their bodies meet, to Will's ear. Everywhere but his eyes.

Will is having none of it.

He takes Hannibal's chin in his hand and brings him up, catching his eyes. Will feels something dislodge in him, sees Hannibal's beating heart under glass, its petals peeled back and falling, falling. It's painful and terrifying and lovely, and all the cages he's built for Will disintegrate, wings of his mind are defenseless, stepping into the light. "Inside you," Will says, his voice tinged with wonder. 

Hannibal gasps his name.

Their lips meet in quick, fleeting kisses. Hannibal's pace quickens and he takes Will's cock in his hand. His touch is reverent. He angles his cock upward and Will keens, arching up. "I love you," he says, not meaning to but glad for it. He meets Hannibal's thrusts and lights up when Hannibal groans, when his muscles tense. "Come on," he pants. "Come on." Power charges through him and fires every nerve in his body, and he is coming so hard his skull vibrates with it, his blood aches with it. 

He is pliant and open and Hannibal is fucking him, grunting with each thrust until he comes with a cry ripped from his throat, and Will kisses him hard and holds him inside, groaning has the come leaks between them and onto the sheets. Will wraps his legs around Hannibal's back and tastes the sweat on his forehead, inhaling in great gulps. His broken arm is flat against the sheets, throbbing, his shoulder aching. The shadow slides his lips into a smile.


	14. Chapter 14

Hannibal leaves wordlessly, and when he returns he's carrying a warm cloth that he runs across Will's chest and belly. Will feels formless, like he could float away. He knows there is a stupid grin on his face.

"Are there any more prerequisites I have to meet? Any more serial killer death matches? I think this makes three."

Hannibal's mouth twitches, but in the wrong direction. Will sits up and instantly regrets it - the movement sends burning twinges at his entrance and deep inside him. But damnit if he doesn't flush a little with pride. 

"What's wrong?" he asks, doing his best to keep still. Hannibal is staring at the mirror with lazer focus, and Will risks the pain to turn and join him so that they are both facing it. Hannibal looks stricken, like he's grappling with an unexpected loss. Will watches his mouth open and close.

"You're here," Hannibal says, and his hand comes up and gently touches Will's shoulder. "There were glimpses of you..."

Will keeps his eyes trained on Hannibal's in the mirror until they liquefy, fading into different scenes - Hannibal visiting to stock the kitchen with food, combing through the woods for feathers and stones for Will's desk, depositing dog bowls in the closet. Calmly demonstrating surgical techniques on cadavers as Leonard observes, the two of them whispering about Will in the quiet. Hannibal fluffing the pillows in Will's room, decorating Abigail's in white and yellow. Then the three years when Leonard waited, growing his collection, running errands, keeping vigil until the master's return. None of it went quite as planned. 

Will leans back into Hannibal's chest with a sigh. "I thought you might kill me," he says. It strikes him that normal couples say this in jest on a regular basis. He never has. Hannibal quirks his head as if to ask,  _which time?_ "For throwing us off a cliff."

"I was...surprised by that." Will bites his lip - careful this time - and sees that Hannibal is coming back to him, his eyes losing their fixation. Will shivers against him. "As surprised as I am now. And angry."

"With me."

"With myself," Hannibal corrects him. "For always underestimating you."

Will turns his face against Hannibal's neck and breathes him in, closing his eyes. Hannibal's arms wind their way around Will's chest. Will could fall asleep this way, he thinks, and starts to head in that direction until Hannibal squeezes him, once, and then releases. 

"I need to change your bandages," he says. Will responds by nuzzling into him with a  _hmph._ "Will."

"Yes, doctor." Will begrudgingly untangles himself and slides over to the side of the bed.

Hannibal joins him, removing the bandages and making a small sound of approval. "Good," he says. He retrieves supplies from the bathroom and comes back with gauze and ointment, but also a ball of cloth clutched in his hand. When he unfolds it he reveals a bonafide, non-pillowcase sling.

"What a weird thing to have. Although, maybe not."

"I made it," says Hannibal, presenting it to Will like a child with an art project. He helps Will into it, tightening straps and buckles and adjusting Will's arm. He moves to Will's shoulder and brings a damp sponge to the wound, tapping along the skin. Will tries his best not to wince. The whole procedure can't take more than five minutes, but to Will it is an age. Hannibal's clinical touch is touch nonetheless. Will wonders about this door they've opened, what it means for him. The question of having sex with men is almost besides the point. Almost. It's less about men than this one particular man, who lied to Will about his encephalitis, who framed Will for murder and plunged a knife into his gut, who tried to have his family killed. The man who left his broken heart on a sacred alter for Will, who gave up his freedom just so Will would know where he was.

Yet even after Bedelia stated the obvious, Will's mind hadn't crossed into this dimension. Sometimes he was shocked to remember that Hannibal was flesh and bone.

"Where are you, Will?"

Will shakes his head, refocusing. Hannibal is watching him. 

"Here," he says. Without prompting his eyes drop to Hannibal's lips and he's fascinated, outlining the shape of his mouth with a tentative fingertip, noting the way it changes with Hannibal's expression. He adds his thumb and memorizes the texture. Then his fingers make their way to Hannibal's chin and down to his Adam's apple -  _how would that taste?_

"People often make grand declarations during intercourse," Hannibal murmurs. Will can't help the laugh that huffs against Hannibal's throat.

"Is that what we're calling it?" he asks. He leans in and nips at Hannibal's Adam's apple, letting his tongue slip between his teeth to taste. Sunlight and salt. "I didn't expect to say it. I didn't expect to mean it."

Hannibal dips down and presses their lips together, holding perfectly still. Will had been feeling reflective, buoyant and almost giddy, but now the full weight of his own words is lodged in his stomach and there is a tightness in his chest. He feels his cheeks flush. Hannibal pulls back enough to notice it.

"You blush easily," Hannibal says.

"God," says Will.

"And you wax spiritual when you're aroused."

"I'm not aroused," Will responds, but to his amazement he finds that he  _is._  He feels like a teenager, flushed and eager. "Oh god." Hannibal smiles and retains it as he lowers his lips again, and this time Will opens to him, stretched around the edges of Hannibal's mouth. There is a sudden shift and Hannibal growls into his mouth and Will was not prepared for it. His hand grabs the back of Hannibal's neck, desperate, thrilled. Instead of pushing him back onto the bed Hannibal lifts Will into his lap, and that does something to Will's brain and things start to go fuzzy. There are little cries springing up from his throat.

"Noisy," Hannibal mutters. The 'z' buzzes against Will's lips. "Just as I'd hoped."

"Are you cataloging this?" Will gasps as Hannibal's hand closes around Will's cock. 

"Saving it," Hannibal says. "Relishing it."

Will thrusts into Hannibal's hand, trying to keep his sling out of the way. It accidentally knocks into Hannibal's jaw and Will curses with pain and embarrassment. "Change of plans," he says. He stands and then quickly sinks down to his knees by the side of the bed and takes Hannibal into his mouth. Too much too fast, he discovers, nearly choking. He eases back and tries again, this time wrapping his lips around just the tip. His tongue presses up from the underside of Hannibal's cock and runs along the foreskin, sliding it up and back. So far he's kept his eyes closed in concentration, but Hannibal's hand caresses his cheek and he flicks his eyes open and into Hannibal's face, and Hannibal is biting his lip, sweat beading his brow. Will holds his gaze as he sucks more of him in. He ignores the protests of his injured cheek, letting the discomfort wash over him and blend with his arousal. When he groans Hannibal throws his head back, and he reaches down and buries his fingers in Will's hair.

"Yes," Will breathes, taking Hannibal's dick in his hand and mouthing at the base. When his mouth descends again Hannibal holds him, and Will knows that he could come just like this, without even touching himself. He is more confident now, experimenting. His mouth sinks all the way and he relaxes his throat, breathing heavily through his nose. Hannibal moans when Will swallows around him, so he does it again.

"Šūdas," says Hannibal, and Will doesn't understand it but he gets the idea. Now he does touch himself and he has to close his eyes, overwhelmed. "Will." Hannibal yanks him up by the hair and practically throws him on the bed. Will feels all the air rush out of his lungs, but before he can recover Hannibal is kissing him, his tongue sweeping the scar inside his cheek. Hannibal has their cocks in his hand, and it only takes two strokes before he comes on Will's stomach, sucking Will's bottom lip hard. He slides a finger into Will's ass, stroking with the other hand. "My beautiful boy," he says, and Will comes for the second time that night, messy and incoherent. 

Hannibal holds him afterwards, his weight a comforting warmth. Will can't seem to regulate his breathing - his chest is heaving with every inhale. His exhales are shaky. Then Hannibal is looming over him, propped up on one elbow.

"Shh," he says, running a hand along Will's forehead and following it with his mouth. He brings Will's hand up to his chest and keeps his mouth on Will's forehead, small kisses. Hannibal's heartbeat reverberates against Will's palm,  _shh, shh_. 

"Shh," Will repeats, and it helps. He falls asleep to the beat of the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Šūdas = shit (?) Another hopeful translation.
> 
> Again I just want to thank everyone for your feedback and comments - this is my first fic (mostly ever, unless you count that one about Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr that I wrote in college...), so it's really helpful and encouraging!!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to Akuma River for her amazing help!
> 
> Homage: http://archiveofourown.org/users/akuma_river/pseuds/akuma_river

In the morning Hannibal is gone, and Will is clean and wearing a pair of loose pajama bottoms. He stretches is good arm overhead and finds that while he doesn't have complete mobility, his shoulder feels less sore. He tries to get up but exhaustion pulls him back down, squeezing his head in a vise. He turns his face into the pillow and it's  _Hannibal_ , the smell of his hair and his sweat and fresh linen. Will inhales through his nose. 

_I love you._

Shit.

He does, and there is no use obfuscating, no use dragging Molly and Walter in as The Excuse when it's obvious (strangely obvious, he thinks - the realization had been both predictable and shocking). He saw Hannibal's heart, not the grisly scene he found in Florence but the beating thing, smaller than he'd pictured and aching. This is a new monster, one that Will had seen in brief flashes but never examined, never held. Will had recovered from Hannibal's will, his mind, his strength, but this - it's the most dangerous part of him. 

Will finally sits up and it takes every ounce of determination to drag himself across the bed, his bare feet landing on the floor as if stepping onto new land. Hannibal must have removed his sling in the night. Will picks it up from atop the dresser and wiggles into it, then pads out into the hallway and descends the staircase, catching the glint of sunlight reflecting in the chandelier. 

Of course Hannibal is cooking, and of course Will watches. Hannibal's back is to him, but he can imagine the ingredients being torn apart and reassembled into something better, the end result designed to caress every sense. As Will stands in the doorway he attempts to steel himself for this conversation in the cold light of day. He wants to talk about expectations and boundaries and all the horrible things they've done to each other, not sweeping it under the rug. But then Hannibal turns to face him and everything stops.

"Will," Hannibal says, and Will is in his arms.

"Morning," he replies, sound muffled in Hannibal's robe. There's a slow rocking, back and forth, and if Will was in his right mind he would laugh at this impossible domesticity. As it is he lets himself be rocked, pulling away when the pressure on his broken arm becomes too much. Hannibal's mouth is right there, and Will remembers those lips around his cock, watches them part slightly. He leans in and quickly dips away, smiling as Hannibal gasps in surprise and disappointment. "I smell bacon."

"There is bacon to be smelled," says Hannibal after a pause. The pause is delightful. Hannibal returns to the stove, and as Will takes a seat at the island he tips the contents of the pan onto two plates. He sets one down in front of Will but remains close, and Will looks up expectantly. "I'd like to reset your arm." If there was one thing Will thought Hannibal might say, it wasn't that.

"Oh."

"The break is clean, and the swelling has gone down considerably. It should respond well to closed reduction." The break hadn't sounded clean - didn't  _feel_ clean - but Will can't come up with a reason that Hannibal would want him further incapacitated. 

"Right. Right, let's do it." He lets this conclusion sink in, then sets to work on the bacon.

Breakfast is eaten in silence. Then Hannibal puts the plates in the sink and slips out of the kitchen, returning with his bag and a tumbler of brown liquor. "I have local anesthesia on hand, but it will not mask the pain entirely." To Will Hannibal seems reticent, which is genuinely concerning.

"Hey. It's okay, alright?" Hannibal looks at him. It's a rare thing, but Will welcomes the eye contact.  _I don't want to hurt you_ , it says, and there's another thing Will never thought he'd hear. _  
_

Hannibal draws the lidocaine from the vial through a thin needle, then injects it into Will's arm. He pours a generous amount of liquor - scotch, Will decides - into a glass and slides it over to Will, who downs it in one gulp. "Relax," Hannibal says, drawing out the 'a' slightly. He is all focus, his face a mask of cold professionalism. Will should be comforted by that, knowing that Hannibal has done this maybe a million times before, but the change feels like a rug has been ripped out from under him. He braces his good arm on the counter to fight the vertigo. 

Hannibal takes his arm and yanks it down and then suddenly up, and Will knows he is screaming but can't quite catch up to it, the sound spiraling faster than his thoughts. He hears Hannibal's voice as if from underwater. He recognizes a new memory, of Hannibal shouting to him as the waves sped over them, as jagged rocks loomed closer and closer: "Stay with me, Will. Hold on."

"With you," Will rasps. His head leans heavily into Hannibal's chest. Hannibal's arm are around him, tight enough to make breathing uncomfortable. Will clings to it.

"Shh," Hannibal says. Will hasn't been in this much pain for a long time, but maybe it's the scotch, the adrenaline, or a combination of the two that sends him laughing.

"You've been shushing me a lot lately. I should take offense." Maybe his threats don't carry the same weight as they once did, because Hannibal drops a kiss to Will's hair and shushes him again. 

When Will has recovered his breath, Hannibal makes a splint and begins checking and adjusting Will's arm, fingers dancing over skin. The lidocaine dulls Hannibal's touch, but Will can feel his blood preening under it, rising to meet it. He wonders if this is how he will always react to him, now. It's not sustainable.

"Hannibal," he says. Hannibal continues with his ministrations, but a cock of his head tells Will he's listening. "What are we going to do about this?"

He's curious to see how Hannibal will respond. He's not sure what "this" is, frankly. Hannibal finishes wrapping his arm with medical tape, securing it to the thin splint and replacing the sling. Then he sits back, expression inscrutable. When he speaks, Will feels the air constrict around them. _  
_

"I'm going to take you away with me, show you the beautiful cities of the world and watch you thrive, wake you up every morning with my lips on your skin and my breath in your lungs, and I will give you the knife when you ask me to and stay my own hand should you wish it. I will spoil you on good wine and better food and count the grey hairs in your beard year after year, and when it's time we will be fathers again, as we once were, and you will teach our daughter to fish and I will teach her French, and when we kill together it will be for us and for her, and I will destroy anything that would take you from me, even death." Hannibal stops, his breath soundless, and then he  _smiles._ "With your permission."

Will's eyes are closed, and if he thought he was in pain before the thudding of his heart disproves him. He almost can't bear it. Then Hannibal kisses him and he knows he can.

 

Will sleeps for the rest of the afternoon, leaving Hannibal to "prepare" (for what, he wouldn't say) in the kitchen until nightfall. After he showers Will indulges the impulse to comb through Hannibal's gifts, running his hand over cashmere sweaters and polished leather belts and shoes. When he finds a pair of simple jeans and a green flannel he stops and tells himself to breathe, then sits on the bed and stares at them until Hannibal calls his name. 

When Hannibal catches sight of him in a pale grey cardigan and black trousers he doesn't hide his surprise or his approval. "They suit you," he says. Will starts to reply but is cut off by a deafening alarm. He doesn't have to ask to know what it is.

"How long do we have?"

"A few minutes," Hannibal says. He turns and goes down into the basement, and Will follows without hesitating. Three black SUVs are making their way down the road. Will swears he catches a glimpse of the rim of Jack's hat as they approach the outbuilding. 

He's not sure when they'll be alone next, if he'll have another chance. So he takes Hannibal in his arms and whispers harshly into his ear. "I won't let them have you." Hannibal nods, but Will can sense that he is thinking ahead, the gears kicking into overdrive. 

When he pulls back Will is glad to see the calm resoluteness in Hannibal's eyes, but best of all is the tiny glimmer, the glint of mischief that dances there, the beast unfurling. 

"Save yourself. Kill them all," says Will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know nothing about broken bones or how they work! Please excuse inaccuracies.


	16. Chapter 16

Will's hands are tied behind his back, his broken arm twisted uncomfortably behind him. Resetting the bone reduced some of the pain, but not enough. There is a gun to his head, and Will tries to remember how many times he's had a gun pointed at him throughout the years - it has to be at least a half dozen by now, though he's found that in the grand scheme of things guns aren't usually the biggest threat to his safety. The biggest threat has always been (and always will be, in all likelihood), the man holding his hands together at the base of his spine, the man whose hand is as comfortable around the handle of a gun as it is holding a human heart.

"I will kill him without hesitation, Jack," says Hannibal. Jack Crawford and a team of eight FBI agents are pointing yet more guns in Will's direction, though they're aiming for the man behind him. There are more agents moving around and inside the outbuilding, but at Jack's command they are all swarming to the house, at least five more that Will can see. One of the agents is calling for backup. 

Jack's grin can only be described as shit-eating. "Who's to say he's not your accomplice, Dr. Lecter?"

"You could consult the hostage I have tied up inside. She's been given a lethal dose of - well, I don't want to spoil the surprise. Something for which she will need an antidote within ten minutes or so.  A recipe I failed to write down, I'm afraid. She and Will have been spending a great deal of quality time together. I'm sure she has the measure of things."

To Jack's credit, the grin stays in place. "We will have another fifty agents here - and some fancy helicopters - within the hour. You won't make it out of this."

"Then neither will they," Hannibal replies, and the slightest pressure on the place where his bone his healing tears a scream of pain from Will's lips.

It starts to rain.

"What do you want?" Jack says. Another agent comes up to whisper something in his ear. He nods.

"I want you to come inside and have dinner with me," Hannibal tells him. 

"I'm fine right here." Jack is sticking to protocol, but Will can tell the idea of having Hannibal to himself inside the house is tempting. He needs a push.

"Jack - " Will starts. He doesn't have to manufacture the rasping sound of pain. "Just do it. I don't care if you kill me, just shoot him."

"Don't be rude, Will. I have invited our guest to dinner."

The remaining five agents have joined the rest, and one of them gives a report to Jack that downgrades the grin from shit-eating to relatively chuffed. "Who killed those people in the basement, Dr. Lecter? Not you."

"Such a question deserves a thorough explanation. It is hardly appropriate for public conversation."

The rage Will feels is not his own - it comes at him from the line of agents like a tremendous wave, and the images of dead officers left in Hannibal's wake when they went to meet the dragon roll in like mist upon the sea. Hannibal is not safe here.

"She's badly hurt, Jack," he says. He lets the fear and worry climb into his cheeks, settle into his eyes. He looks at Jack and asks him to believe him.

Jack wants an ally here, wants to know that someone is on his side. Will suppresses every instinct and gives it to him in spades.

"Johnson, surround the house and wait for my signal." Jack approaches with the confidence of a man who has gotten by on luck and force of will alone. "I'm bringing the hostage out."

They move into the house in a bizarre triangle, Hannibal's gun pointed at Will, Jack's gun pointed and Hannibal, and for once Will isn't goading anyone. It's a matter of desire, here at the end. He thinks he knows whose is greater. 

 

When Hannibal told him the plan Will felt a brief sting of defiance.  _Be my victim. Again._ Implied, if not explicitly said. But Hannibal must trust him, to be holding him so loosely by the wrists, to be guiding him into a chair with lips brushing against his neck. Somehow Will thinks this might be a scenario they revisit in more intimate settings.

Hannibal has prepared a feast. There is roasted duck and mint sauce, pork belly and bouillabaisse with saffron rouille, wild truffles and mushroom risotto, and the dessert from last night, a whipped grey pudding that Hannibal let him try this morning. Hannibal seats him at the head of the table, and before Jack can react he plunges a syringe into Will's neck and releases.  _The saline_ , Will remembers. 

"Please, Jack. Have a seat." The gun isn't pointed at Jack's head so much as his hat, which Will knows Hannibal despises. Priorities.

"The house is surrounded, and more are on their way. Kill me and you'll be contending with a small village."

"I have no intention of killing you," says Hannibal with an affronted  _tsk_. "I am most eager to try these wild mushrooms, and I would be happy for you to join me. My housekeeper, who is crumpled on the floor among his victims, at the moment, picked these earlier in the season. It would be a shame to waste them."

Will lolls his head forward and exhales heavily. He can feel Hannibal's approving gaze and remembers this scene on a different continent, the sounds and colors warped in a trippy sequence that began with Jack's voice and ended with a saw buzzing across his forehead. He contemplates the likelihood of hanging upside down with Hannibal by the end of the night.

Hannibal gestures for Jack to take a seat. He makes quick work of the restraints before moving off into the kitchen to "coax the creme brulee." Will can't see Jack's face, but a deep chuckle tells him how Jack is processing this.

"Will," he says. "Can you hear me?"

"Mmm."

"Where is the hostage?"

"I don't..."

"Will."

"Wha...how did you - how did you find us?" He rolls his head onto his left shoulder and blinks hard at Jack, who seems more annoyed than concerned.

"Reported sightings of the stolen truck, though that could only get us so far. We've been sweeping for days. The backup should be here soon. Can you hold on?"

"How many?"

Jack furrows his brow. "After what happened, with...they would only let me take this team initially. But we've called for backup. It will take them some time to get up here, but you and I can keep him calm. Let him think he has the upper hand."

Will makes a great show of nodding his head, tilting it all the way back and then down to fall on his chest. The sigh that escapes him is relief.

When Hannibal reenters Will raises his head and finds Hannibal's eyes. "Time to go, Will," Hannibal says.

Will rises up - he must be ten feet tall, he thinks - and latches onto Hannibal's gentle urging, the softening of his eyes as he watches Will unbend. His limbs shake with mortal energy, and when he looks at Jack the fear he sees is like air, feeds him and fills him with everything he never said and wants to say.  _You did this. You picked me apart and fed me to the wolves. Asshole. It's because of you that Beverly's dead. I could rip out your tongue and stuff it down your throat. You created this._

Nothing feels like enough. Will tilts his head, regarding him, then settles on something that Hannibal will appreciate. 

"Try the grey stuff. It's delicious."

Then he punches Jack as hard as he can. Time to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questionable feasibility! But that grey stuff really is delicious, trust me.
> 
> Again, thank you to Akuma River!


	17. Chapter 17

He didn't think about his healing shoulder when he threw the punch. The throbbing that shoots up from his hand makes the edges of his vision blur. Still, he can't regret it.

He blindly follows Hannibal up the staircase and then up into the servants' quarters, through a passageway that leads to a small latched door. The beating of his heart makes his ribcage shudder. "Will," Hannibal says. "Where are they?" 

Will hadn't told Hannibal about this particular quirk of his empathy, but it doesn't shock him that he knows about it. Hannibal is looking at him with equal parts awe and pride. Will closes his eyes and lets that sink in for a moment.

"Will."

"Sorry, yes." He keeps his eyes closed and lets his mind roll outward, distinguishing unique heartbeats that scatter below. "They've moved into the house - Jack might have regained consciousness, might have radioed."

"We have to move." Hannibal leads him through the door and there's a ladder with thin rungs, and Will has no idea how he's meant to climb this with a broken arm and his bum shoulder. He wants to say as much to Hannibal, but the man reaches out and cups his cheek in a steady palm. "Just a few steps, brave boy. And then a few more." Will turns and grabs a rung and pulls up. He curses the shaky breath that rushes out of his lungs and brings tears to his eyes. He hears Hannibal murmuring beneath him. It goes slower than they need it to, but Will climbs steadily and lets the pain spur him, weave through Hannibal's voice and warm his muscles. When they reach the top there is a wooden panel with a thin bar securing it from the inside. Hannibal climbs further up and extends and arm to push the bar aside and slide the panel away, and Will feels cold rain on his face.

Will collapses onto the roof, fighting to calm his breathing. Hannibal helps him to his feet and stops to kiss Will's forehead. He bends down to Will's ear and asks him to find them again. It only takes a second. "Someone's coming," he says. The agents must have split up to search the house. Someone picked lucky door number one, and soon they will find the ladder. Will can't think beyond that, can only flick his eyes to the precipice that spills down into the treetops and the hard ground. 

"Stay with me," says Hannibal. He starts making his way towards the chimney, footfall careful against the gentle slope. Blessedly the roof is relatively flat here, supporting the base of a spire that touches the sky. Will's feet skate over rain-slicked stone. He hears movement from the ladder and reaches out to clutch at Hannibal's arm. They duck down and curve around the spire until they are hiding in its shadow. "There is a passageway that runs parallel to the chimney, straight down into the basement. It can only be opened from within. I will seal it when you are inside, hold them off as best I can. Wait until they are gone before emerging."

"No."

"Will - "

"I'm not leaving you here, so shut up and think of a better plan." Will feels buoyed by Hannibal's naked smile.

The air changes, and someone is with them on the roof.

"It's over, Hannibal," Jack says. Hannibal glances towards the chimney and nods at Will, but Will shakes his head. He increases the pressure on Hannibal's arm. It doesn't have the desired effect, and Hannibal steps out into the rain.

 

Will remembers being stirred by the cold air, hears the crunching of snow as he floats over the ground, suspended in midair. His head is tipped back, his neck supported by solid flesh that sends a heartbeat down his spine from the pulse point in Hannibal's wrist. His body is drained of energy. Hannibal's is flagging as well - Will can tell by the changes in breath, the frantic humming of his blood. He thinks maybe they will collapse in the snow and never get up. Then he lets his eyes flutter open, just for a second, and Hannibal catches them. Will hears himself sigh as the darkness spills over him, and the last thing he sees is that _grin_ , and he's cradled in the arms of the beast with Hannibal's name on the tip of his tongue.

 

"A speedy recovery, Jack. I must say that for a man of your age your body recoups quite well." Will hears the clank of metal - a gun - as it's tossed onto the stones, careening off the edge of the roof. 

"Guns were never my style," quips Jack. There is silence for a beat, even the rain quiets, and then Will steps forward and sees them grappling, sees Hannibal connect his knee to Jack's gut and Jack's fist plunge into Hannibal's throat. He barely has time to register the knife sliding out from Jack's pocket before it's buried in Hannibal's chest. Someone is screaming and it's Will, and he has never moved so quickly. His hand circles Jack's throat and Jack twists until they fall with a heavy thud. Will looks up and sees the gaping drop from the roof staring up at him, whispering. The flesh of his shoulder tears as his hand tightens. The shadow dances down his arm and fuels him,  _do it, do it_. Jack is half on the roof and half off of it, and with one shove Will could send him falling.

 _Here is your choice_ , he thinks.  _How much do you want him?_

Jack begins to speak but before he can say a word Will has given him the push he needs, and he spins fast through the air. Will doesn't wait to watch the body hit the ground.

He is at Hannibal's side, his hand pressed against the gushing blood. It's not helpful to lose it here, so he tries. He tries so hard not to cry that it effectively seals his fate. So he is crying and pushing down on Hannibal's chest.

"No no no," he says. "Let's get you out of here."

"Will."

"No."

Hannibal takes a quick breath and places a hand over Will's, gently lifting it. Will looks into his face and waits for instructions, holds on for the contingency plan that Hannibal must have, Hannibal always saves them. But what Hannibal says isn't a series of commands or suggestions or even encouragement. It falls from his lips on a breath.

"I love you."


	18. Chapter 18

As soon as Hannibal says it things rush into focus as if on a wind. Will feels it swirl around him, bigger than the shadow had been. His arm feels so much better. When did that happen? He removes his sling and wraps it tight around Hannibal's chest. His mind is loose, responsive. Open.

He lifts Hannibal up and has him by the shoulders. Will moves them toward the chimney, rain soaking through his clothes and wringing out his breath in thick puffs. He sees the vertical passageway beside it, blocked by a slab of stone. It takes some doing for him to pry it open with Hannibal in his arms. He leans his back against it and shoves it out of place, then uses his right foot to kick it away. It makes a loud  _clang_ when it falls. 

Will leans Hannibal against the chimney and climbs down the first few rungs of the ladder. He marvels at the ease with which he pulls the other man in, his body framing Hannibal's against the wall. The rain will make the descent difficult, he knows. He takes it one step at a time, guiding Hannibal with his own body, listening to the other man's ragged breathing. About halfway down he slips and his back slams into the opposite wall, Hannibal's full weight against his chest. He gasps for breath. "No," he says. He carefully tilts Hannibal up and finds his footing.

_Brave boy._

He knows the others are approaching the roof. It might take then a minute - maybe two - to find the passageway. He doesn't panic. Slowly, slowly, they near the basement, and when they land Will knows the coast is clear. Hannibal is unconscious, his breathing shallow. With steady hands Will opens the door and lifts Hannibal over the small step from the passageway to the basement, and there is a door that leads up a small flight of stairs and out onto the back of the property. He turns Hannibal around and drags him up the stairs. His body is starting to feel it.

As soon as they make it to the top of the stairs Will hears the frantic screech of tires against mud. Chiyoh jerks to a halt behind the wheel of a black sedan. She looks nonplussed, almost bored. It takes all of his energy to haul Hannibal forward. Chiyoh hops out and Will helps her slide Hannibal into the backseat. There is a shout from the rooftop.

"We must hurry," Chiyoh says. Will fights the urge to roll his eyes. He climbs into the backseat and takes Hannibal's head into this lap, smoothing his hair back to place a cool hand to his forehead. His other hand returns to Hannibal's chest, pressing down. The car tears away, plunging through the woods.

"He needs medical attention," Will croaks.

He looks at Chiyoh in the rearview mirror, watches her blank face tense minutely. "There is a doctor in Georgia, on the coast. We must go by boat."

"He won't make it that far." Will's voice is cracking, and he feels the edges of his vision flicker. "We need to call 911."

"I must switch cars in seventeen miles. Keep him alive until then."

Keep him alive. As if it was a switch he could flip. He maintains pressure on Hannibal's wound and brings their foreheads together.  _I'm trying, Hannibal_. Again he finds himself with the upper hand. He could let the blood flow out without Chiyoh noticing, could commandeer the car and disappear. But if killing Jack Crawford didn't clarify things for him, then the desperation he feels certainly does. He's wanted many things in his life - he's wanted to be a father, uphold the law, and kill Hannibal, all so much that it choked the breath from him at times. Yet he's never wanted anything more than this, for Hannibal to survive this. It is at once the worst and best feeling he's ever had.

The minivan is waiting in a motel parking lot. It is the anti-Hannibal car, Will thinks, which is probably a good thing. Chiyoh dials 911 and pulls off a relatively smooth American accent. "My water just broke. I'm alone." She gives the motel address to the operator. "Be prepared for this to not work," she says. Will nods, not trusting his voice. They sit in silence until they hear the sirens approaching. Then Chiyoh glances at him and says, "You must go alone. I will not come."

"What happened to your loyalty?"

"I am loyal to him. I think you will destroy him, but he would not forgive me if I killed you. So I will let you live, and I will remain here."

There's not much to be said after that, and when the ambulance arrives Chiyoh goes to the door with her rifle cocked. Will opens it.

 

Chiyoh agrees to escort them to the boat that's docked nearby. Will knows she disapproved of killing the medics, disapproves of the course this is taking. He's grateful to her, truly, but is intensely glad that she won't be coming. He doesn't know that he could handle her quiet condemnation.

When they pull into the dock it is nearly dawn. Will and Chiyoh carry Hannibal to a motored sailboat that sits a ways off from the others. Will tucks Hannibal into the cot on the lower decks and watches him for several minutes as Chiyoh prepares the boat for launch. Hannibal's color has improved - the EMTs did well under stress. They had begged him at the end, and after he shot the woman in the head the man looked at him with a sad resignation that screamed through every cell in his body. He fights to maintain his detachment now. No time for anything else.

Finally, Chiyoh comes to retrieve him and they are ready to depart. She lingers at Hannibal's side and Will lets her have her moment, going up to start the engine. When she returns she does not look at him. He watches her retreating back as he powers out to sea.

 

They sail for seven hours. Will lost consciousness a few times, so to be safe he flicks the autopilot on after setting a course for the Florida Keys. Hannibal had mapped it out beforehand. He can't move either of his arms without stabbing pain, so he sits motionless on the deck and stares out into the water, the sea rising and falling in rhythmic pulses. After another five hours Will hears Hannibal stir, hears his tight gasps and hesitant footsteps. It takes him twenty minutes to climb the stairs to join Will on the upper deck.

"I killed Jack Crawford," Will says.

"I know," Hannibal replies. He sits beside Will behind the steering wheel and leans back so that their shoulders are touching. The sky darkens and unveils a thick blanket of stars.  


	19. Chapter 19

They are anchored somewhere between Cuba and Key West. Or not, Will can't be sure. He hasn't spoken in hours, so he hasn't asked. Hannibal brought him a glass of water a while ago, helped him down the steps and onto the cot and fiddled with his shoulder for a few minutes. Will can't decide where he is. He might be here, or he might be one of the Wills in Hannibal's mirror, fading in and out of time. Maybe he died when they fell into the Atlantic, and these are the after-images of what could have been in an alternate reality. Like that episode of Star Trek - yes, he watches Star Trek - with good Kirk and bad Kirk. He's pretty sure he's the bad Will in this universe. The dilemma is whether he cares.

He sleeps for an hour or so, then the pain wakes him. Hannibal is at his side with a needle.

"I want to be lucid," Will says.

"You're in pain." The way he says it heats Will's chest.

"Yes. But I want to talk to you. I thought you might die. I feel like we need to debrief about this." Hannibal looks haggard, almost, and the worry twists the muscles around his eyes and mouth. He places the needle on the tiny side table and sits next to Will on the cot. They are close enough to touch, but don't. "I killed Leonard. I killed Jack Crawford. And then I killed two innocent people who saved your life."

"Will - "

"Shh. I'm shushing you." When Hannibal looks sufficiently chastised, Will continues. "They weren't rude or evil or trying to hurt me, but they were in the way. And so I killed them. That's my criteria now. They had served their purpose. And I - " He feels the tears coming and shakes his head, willing them to recede. Hannibal doesn't reach to comfort him, and Will is grateful for it. "I wasn't lying, at the house. It's beautiful. And terrible. And if we stumble upon a cliff in the near future the only thing I know is that I won't take you with me this time."

"Are you the greater monster?" says Hannibal after a pause.

"Maybe."

"And I do not merit an end with such a creature."

"You don't merit an end. To me. That's the entire problem, Hannibal." Will want to reach up and run his hands through his hair to soothe some frustration, but his arms won't cooperate. Instead he thumps his head lightly against the wall and closes his eyes. "I had a nightmare at the house. Fuck, let's just call it a castle and be done with it. In the dream Francis' wings became a - a shadow that entered me and ripped me apart. The pain of it...I don't know if it qualifies as the worst pain I've ever felt, since it wasn't real. But when I woke up, when I was with you, I felt - I felt it inside me. I felt so powerful." Will shivers and lays a hand flat on the bed between them. It's about all he can accomplish in this state. Hannibal considers it for a moment and then runs two fingers over Will's knuckles, down to his fingertips, flips the hand over and traces the lines in his palm.

"I am no expert in dream interpretation."

"And yet..."

Will thrills at Hannibal's small smile. "And yet it would seem that the shadow represents a synthesis of the desires which historically frightened you - your darkness, as you see it - and those parts of you that have limped along in their absence. Always half-formed, half-realized. Perhaps killing the dragon allowed you to see it in its physical manifestation. But you had been craving synthesis long before then."

Will's breath deepens as Hannibal's fingers climb the veins in his arm, provoking spikes of pain that finish in soft whispers. "I still tried to get away from it."

"What changed?" 

Will opens his eyes and watches as Hannibal's fingers return to Will's palm. He curls his fingers up as high as they'll go, seeking. Hannibal covers Will's hand with his. "In the past I might have said you changed me. And you might have wanted to take credit. Maybe you still do." He doesn't need Hannibal to answer to know it's true, at least in part. He brings his lips up to Hannibal's ear, teasing the lobe between his teeth before saying, "I changed, Hannibal, all by myself. I fell in love with you."

 

Over the next week or so they sail, eat, sleep, repeat, and heal at intervals in between. Will asks about the doctor in Georgia, why they didn't stop there first, but Hannibal mentions a "colleague" in Argentina, says that it wouldn't do to linger in the States after "Jack fell down and broke his crown." Will can't fault his logic, and he's left wondering how many quips and puns he'll have to stomach for the rest of his life.

Hannibal makes do with cans of baked beans and cured meat. They revert to using a pillowcase for Will's sling, and Will wakes up every hour or so with a whimper that draws Hannibal to him with medicine and breathy assurances, kisses to his forehead. They drink gallons of water and sleep like cats. Sometimes Will heaves himself up onto the deck - Hannibal had insisted he stay below to rest - and stares at the ocean for hours. There are quick storms and then longer ones, and once they watch a thunderstorm from miles away, the lightning corralling heavy black clouds and waves reaching up in angry fists. Hannibal gently holds him when they sleep.

 

Hannibal is letting his beard grow out, and at first Will isn't sure how to respond. After a few days, though, he wakes up and sees Hannibal working in the kitchen, takes in the steady layer of dark hair that frames his jaw, lingers on tufts of grey that pepper his chin. He feels his chest flush and curses when Hannibal stops what he's doing to rake his eyes over Will's body. Before Will can say anything Hannibal turns back to the stove to finish making breakfast.

"Are you hungry, Will?" he asks. The cad.

"Starving. But I'm too tired to move."

"Breakfast in bed, then."

"I hope there's enough to fill me up."

Will has never thought of himself as particularly flirtatious - his sexuality has always reared up at him like a problem to be dealt with, occasional pleasant side effects tempered by emotional exhaustion. Here he feels like an unabashed tease. He's sure it would have confused Molly, probably most of his past lovers. Hannibal's response is to quirk an eyebrow.

"Now Will," he says. "By rights you and I should be confined to hospital beds, under constant medical supervision. I wouldn't want you to strain yourself."

"You'll be careful."

Hannibal doesn't respond, but slides two omelets onto a plate and sits on the edge of the bed. He slices into the egg with the side of his fork and holds it up to Will's lips. Will thinks that maybe this is going too far, but he opens his mouth and lets Hannibal feed him his breakfast and moans his approval with each bite until Hannibal all but tosses the plate aside and captures his mouth. Will gasps when Hannibal drags a hand over his cock, grasping the tip on the upstroke. Without moving his hand Hannibal slips behind Will and leans him back into this chest.

"Just like this," Hannibal says. "Let me watch you."

Will tips his head back onto Hannibal's shoulder, and his nose brushes against Hannibal's beard where it meets his neck. Hannibal's touch is slow and tight. Will can't help the slight bucking of his hips. "Mmm god," Will groans.

"Thought you might say that."

Will's laugh takes several turns, first into a moan and then into a hitch of his breath as Hannibal squeezes the base of his dick. His arms feel like jelly, his shoulder is a constant dull ache, and he's an honest to goodness murderer. Still, he's never felt more comfortable in his own skin.

 

Will lets Hannibal shave him before they land. Hannibal is careful with his cheek, which is still pink and sensitive. When Will looks at himself in the mirror he sees a young man - younger than he really is - with the scars of a life fully lived. The incongruity used to bother him, but instead of disconcerted he feels  _right_.

When they step into the hot October sun, Will is able to take Hannibal's arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for coming on this journey with me! Your feedback has really helped shape this story. Would love to get prompts and ideas for future fics, so please email me at ferventrabbit@gmail if you'd like to see anything in particular :-)


	20. Epilogue

Will takes the stick from Cephi's mouth and tosses it further into the yard. His arm is still getting used to the idea of full motion. Throwing a stick feels like a running a marathon. He watches Cephi leap after it, her tail arcing in wide circles. When she reaches the stick she shakes it in her mouth, bowing playfully.

"Here, Cephi," Will calls. She comes barreling back.

"I wish you would use her full name." Hannibal emerges from the kitchen carrying a tray piled with the fixings for tea.

"Yeah, because introducing our dog as 'Encephalitis' wouldn't raise any red flags."

Hannibal responds with the bemused grunt that always follows Will's sarcasm. 

Cephi gnaws on the stick as Hannibal pours the tea, fresh mint steaming up from engraved china. There are delicate cubes of sugar and lemon wedges, but Will drinks his without any accouterments. He gasps when the hot tea singes the tip of his tongue.

"You never wait long enough," says Hannibal, scolding.

"I'm incorrigible," Will concedes. They sit in silence as the tea cools and Cephi's stick dies a slow, quiet death.

 

When they first arrive in Argentina they hole up in a small beachfront cottage rented under one of Hannibal's pseudonyms. Hannibal strips the boat and sells it to a "repurposer," whatever that is, and he gets Will an actual sling from a medical supply store. He swears that the one with hearts printed on the cloth is the last they'd had, and Will decides to indulge him. For now.

After a few days Hannibal asks Will if he will join him on a consulting visit to a colleague's office.

"What is 'consulting visit' a euphemism for?"

Hannibal smiles.

It is a quick drive on the main highway to Buenos Aires. If Hannibal was hoping to fly under the radar with the modest cottage, this car pretty much guarantees the opposite. It is a sleek Bentley convertible, stark white with leather seats. They spin through the city as the sun sets. Will watches the throngs of people, the traffic pulsing in and out, and wonders if any one of them could see him for what he is, would suspect it of him. He is clean-shaven and, next to Hannibal, cuts a demure figure. But he's just as deadly.

They arrive at a neighborhood in the hills above town, quiet and set apart. They park halfway down the hill, and as soon as they're out of the car Hannibal's whole demeanor changes. He leans forward slightly, his mouth tightens, and his eyes flash dark. Will's heart speeds up.

"Come," Hannibal says. They glide up the hill and through side streets, sidling up against a house at the end of the block. Will follows Hannibal instinctively, hardly needing to look to see where he's going. They come to a side door, and Hannibal picks the lock with quick fingers. When they slip in Hannibal sweeps up stairs and through hallways with a familiarity that should be disconcerting. Will is reminded that he has rarely seen Hannibal like this, in his element. The thought of having unfettered access to this part of him sends a shiver of anticipation down Will's spine.

Bedelia is waiting for them when they enter the dining room. She is fetching in a trim black gown, her hair impeccably quaffed. Will tries to identify the stab of emotion that he feels at the sight of her. He settles on curiosity.

"Hannibal," Bedelia says in that slow, maddening drawl. 

"Dr. du Maurier," says Hannibal with a small bow.

Bedelia turns her attention to Will and eyes the abundance of hearts on his sling. "This is my life now," Will shrugs.

Bedelia informs them that she has already injected herself with pentobarbital, and chases the statement with a swig of whiskey. "How considerate." Hannibal sounds genuinely grateful. He excuses himself to take stock of the kitchen, leaving Will and Bedelia to amuse themselves. Will itches to pour himself a drink, thinks about it, but ends up taking a seat across from Bedelia to wait for Hannibal.

"So," he begins. "What brings you to Buenos Aires?"

"Hannibal's invitation." At Will's cocked eyebrow, she continues. "If I did him the courtesy of joining him for dinner, I could choose the main course."

"And what are we having?"

"I've been fitted for a prosthetic leg. The preparation is entirely up to Hannibal."

"I'm sure he has something decadent in mind."

"Decadent, but not overly rich," Hannibal says from the doorway. He sets a tray of surgical equipment on the table. Will is reminded of watching Hannibal unconscious and weak, Leonard's fingers knuckle-deep in a bullet wound. That's when it started to come together for him, he thinks. He wanted Hannibal strong, alive. "I must say Bedelia, you've done a wonderful job preparing for this evening. Everything has been arranged just as I requested."

"Thank the lord I've had the napkins freshly pressed," she replies. Hannibal affords her a soft smile, then gestures for her to climb up on the table. He wraps a heavy apron around himself and squeezes gloves onto his hands. As Hannibal starts an IV, Bedelia regards Will a bemusement that's tinged with regret. "It seems that you've been fully realized, Will Graham."

"That sounds too passive for what it is. How it happened."

"But it was passive, ultimately. It had to incubate."

Hannibal slides a mask onto his face, so when he speaks his voice echoes against it. "Please don't distract my patient, Will."

"It's a tale as old as time," Bedelia slurs, her eyes fluttering. "The caterpillar becomes the butterfly."

When she loses consciousness Will notes the slowing of her respiration, the slight trembling of her hand. Hannibal smears the top of her thigh with iodine, arranges the tools in the order in which he'll need them. When he glances up Will is already walking towards him, step light. Hannibal opens his arms, and Will slides in, back to chest. For a moment he stands immobile. He remembers the slow dance by the fire in Hannibal's castle, the terrifying fragility of his resolve. 

"Help me," he says now with a slight lilt, the curl of a question at the end. But Hannibal would never tell him "no." The knife is in Will's hand, and Hannibal guides him.

 

Having destroyed the stick, Cephi settles under Hannibal's chair to loll over onto her side. Hannibal lays his feet softly against her belly.

"What did I tell you about using her as a footrest, Hannibal?"

"It's soft," Hannibal says. Will clicks his tongue, then takes a final sip of tea before getting up to straddle Hannibal's lap. Hannibal lifts a hand to trace the scar on Will's cheek, now a stern line that curves up into his dimple, flexes when he smiles. Will turns his face into the palm, eyes closing. Hannibal hums quietly, a tune that Will doesn't recognize precisely but that strikes him as familiar. He leans down and kisses Hannibal's top lip, then his bottom lip, then both at once. Hannibal reaches and pulls him closer, and Will will never tire of the thinly veiled strength that ripples beneath the surface, left simmering for him.

"You're smitten," says Will.

"My affection is not so fleeting."

"Super smitten."

"Enduring."

Will laughs, biting Hannibal's lower lip with a promise. "And will we live happily ever after?"

Hannibal bucks up, and it's just enough to take Will's breath away.

"I've got you," Hannibal says. "I've got you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


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